


Inumbrare

by esteri_ivy



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, Elia Was Killed By Aerys, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Jon Teaches Dany To Fight, Minor Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Minor Sansa Stark/Viserys Targaryen, Mystery, N plus A equals J, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2020-06-30 13:23:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 43,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19854064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteri_ivy/pseuds/esteri_ivy
Summary: After she narrowly escapes an abduction, Daenerys's brother, King Rhaegar, summons one of the Seven Kingdoms' finest swordsmen to train her in self-defense. But as the threats against her escalate, it becomes clear that there is a traitor among them and the danger is far from over. Slow burn. AU.





	1. Prologue - JON/DANY

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! I've had this idea stuck in my brain for a couple months now, so I'm very excited to be working on this. That said, this fic is... extremely AU. Like, very AU. Please read the tags so there's no confusion. 
> 
> This fic was mainly born out of Dany picking up a sword in the Season That Shall Not Be Named. I don't want to commit to an update schedule just yet, as this is my first time trying to do a full-length, multi-chapter fic, but I expect it to be in the vicinity of 25 or so chapters, and I'll definitely be working on it often.
> 
> Without further ado...

* * *

_The best protection any woman can have is courage._

* * *

**\- JON -**

There are only a few ways that a bastard can make something of himself in the eyes of the realm. He can join the Night’s Watch, where all men forsake their titles and rise up in the ranks on merit. He can be legitimized by the king (and possibly inherit a title, if he’s a bastard of noble birth). Or he can become a knight, if he’s ambitious and worthy enough. 

If he’s lucky enough.

Jon Snow had been ambitious and worthy. He had been lucky. 

He was rewarded.

The ‘Ser’ that now came before his name had provided him with some respect — the honor and duty of being a knight of the Seven Kingdoms. And those duties were plentiful. 

But while Jon generally met his responsibilities with vigor, his newest assignment was an outlier. There was possibly _nothing_ he wanted to do less than to move to King’s Landing to teach a princess how to wave around a sword.

But what choice did he have? A fool’s only.

A raven had arrived that morning; its message brought to him as he broke his fast at his lady aunt’s home: 

_Rhaegar Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, requests the presence of Ser Jon Snow at King’s Landing with haste, for the purpose of training the Princess of Dragonstone in the arts of self-defense and combat._

‘Requests his presence.’ As if he could refuse a summons from the king.

It was just a few weeks prior that the Seven Kingdoms had been shaken by news from the capital: Daenerys Targaryen, third-in-line for the Iron Throne, had been abducted from her castle on Dragonstone. The stories of her miraculous escape — shaken but otherwise unharmed, having fled her captors on foot — had grown more and more ridiculous by the day.

Jon had heard the men talk at the local inn, sloshing their ale and beating their chests.  Theories ranged from the princess seducing her captors to her hatching a dragon egg and burning them alive. 

Every man’s source was “I’ve heard tell.” No one was entirely certain where the rumors were coming from, and the royal family hadn't said a word beyond their announcement that the youngest Targaryen had returned home.

Regardless, it was clear that the incident had prompted a reconsideration of her safety. From an observer’s point of view, Jon thought it made sense. While he’d never met the princess, most accounts suggested she was vivacious, kind and extraordinarily beautiful. 

If one believed the ways the bards sang of her, she was otherworldly.

He wasn’t entirely sure about that. Jon had seen his share of beautiful women, but even the most alluring of them had not floored him. Robb and Theon had mocked him for it when they were younger: that no woman was good enough for Jon Snow, the bastard.

His hand twitched reflexively at the old insult.

Beautiful or not, Daenerys Targaryen was one of King Rhaegar’s two remaining family members, and anyone seeking leverage over him would certainly be interested in her.

But that was really where the heart of the problem lay, because while Jon believed wholeheartedly that a woman could become more than capable of combat with proper instruction, Daenerys was no ordinary woman. She was a princess.

It was highly unlikely she’d trained a day in her life. It could take weeks for her to pick up even the simplest of moves, and that was riding on the assumption that she could lift and swing a sword. And beside that, there was nothing he could teach her that would be enough to overcome an organized group of mercenaries if the palace guards weren’t enough to stop them.

It was an assignment Jon knew he could not truly complete, and that rankled him.

But none of it mattered in light of the summons. He had been ordered to the Red Keep, and he would go. A note like this could not be ignored, especially considering its unusual postscript. Unlike the elegant loops of the official order, the bottom was messy — hastily scrawled.

_Should the opportunity present itself, please pass on King Rhaegar’s best wishes to the Lady Lyanna Stark_.

Rhaegar and Lyanna. A love that might have destroyed the realm, if not for timing. 

After Rhaegar crowned Lyanna as his Queen of Love and Beauty at the Tourney of Harrenhal, his aunt’s betrothed had erupted. Furious at the slight, jealous of Lyanna’s affections, Robert Baratheon staged an attack on the dragon prince.

Rhaegar had been injured, but not grievously. Unfortunately, the Mad King didn’t see it that way. He had Robert executed; and for good measure, killed Lyanna’s father and oldest brother — convinced she’d helped plan the attempt on Rhaegar’s life.

The deaths of Brandon and Rickard Stark had been the last straw for many of the lords across the continent. They’d rebelled. But with his people openly opposing him, Aerys’s madness escalated higher than ever before. His own wife fled to Dragonstone in the night, one child in tow and heavily pregnant with the future princess. 

Not long after, it became clear that Rhaegar was leading the opposing forces. Aerys’s rage had been so terrible that he had his son’s wife and children executed.

Only then did he order Jaime Lannister to burn King’s Landing to ash and dust.

Kingslayer, people still called him. To break an oath was taboo — antithetical to knighthood… but Jon had wondered more than once what kind of man wouldn’t have done the same in his shoes.

King Rhaegar’s ascension had been tense. At first, the smallfolk feared he would turn out to be his father’s son in both body and mind. That fear was unfounded. Rhaegar did his best to repair the damage his father had done and to rule the Seven Kingdoms fairly. 

He walked among the people — personally helped rebuild their homes.

It was said that he spent his free time brooding, tormented by the deaths of his family.

And Lyanna? She lived in Dorne now.

Their love affair had been the final spark that lit the rebellion aflame; but when the battles were won, the two had separated. She’d refused to return to Winterfell after the war, much to the the North’s collective shock. 

It was still whispered about, even now. But Jon had long since abandoned his childhood interest in discovering why the two never married.

His father, Ned Stark, was a stern man — but not a cold one. Despite his bastard status, his father had never made him feel like a disappointment. That is, until the night he’d overheard Jon and his brother Robb speculating snidely about Rhaegar and Lyanna’s relationship. 

They’d been boys still. Two and ten, at most. 

A chuckle. A smirk. A could’ve-been-queen. Ned had come to the yard to check on them and overheard the tail-end of the conversation. Jon still remembered how he had looked back and forth between the two of them furiously, entire face a storm, as though he was trying to pinpoint exactly whose fault it was the discussion had occurred. 

The frost in his voice as he reprimanded them had crawled through Jon’s veins for months. 

But now Jon was curious once more.

He’d been in Dorne to visit his late mother’s sister, Lady Allyria Dayne. But his paternal aunt lived close enough to take a short detour before making his way to the capital, and something told Jon that any information he could gather would be helpful in the snake pit of King’s Landing.

He rode his stallion hard and managed to arrive at Lyanna’s home less than a full day’s ride later.

Lyanna Stark came before him in soft looking pair of trousers and a fitted jerkin — dark hair long and loose. She had the grey eyes of her forebears, but her skin was tanned from time in the sun, darker than any of her Northern relatives. 

She lived by herself, much to her brothers’ consternation, but it seemed to suit her fine. And she'd been delighted to see him, considering he’d not sent word that he was traveling her way. In her warm embrace , he felt the familiar twinge in his heart that always came with seeing her. 

His aunt had always been fond of him — much more fond than his father’s lady wife was and much more open with affection than his own father.

When he was very small, after one of her visits to Winterfell, Jon had wondered why she couldn’t take him back to Dorne with her. He’d thought that maybe, just maybe, she would treat him like a real son, having no children of her own to compare him to.

“Aunt Lyanna,” he said as he stepped back. “Sorry I didn’t write ahead — I received a pressing summons and thought I’d stop by before I leave Dorne.”

She was still beaming at him.

“I’m happy for your company even when it comes without a raven, Jon,” she replied. “Come in!”

His aunt cooed over him, how tall and strong he’d become. How proud she still was of him for being knighted.

He felt red in the face — unused to the praise.

But then Lyanna ushered him through her home, and soon they were seated comfortably. 

When they were situated and she’d brought out a jug of wine, she finally asked: “What did they call you away for?”

He steeled himself — 

“I’ve been summoned by King Rhaegar to teach his sister how to defend herself.”

Lyanna’s entire body visibly shifted as he said Rhaegar’s name, shoulders stiffened, eyes alert. She was silent for a moment, but when she spoke, it sounded careful.

“Has there been more news? I heard the princess had returned safely.”

Jon couldn’t do much more than shrug. He could see her lips press tighter together.

“Not that I’ve been told. The raven was brief. Just said that my presence was requested in King’s Landing to teach Princess Daenerys combat.”

She cocked her head at that, seeming unsurprised. But Jon knew he couldn’t delay Rhaegar’s additional message any longer — especially not to analyze her behavior.

“There was another thing,” he said softly. “The king asked that his best wishes be passed on to you, if there was time.”

Lyanna Stark had always been a bit of an anomaly in the family. She wasn’t reserved, like so many of the Northerners. She wore her emotions plainly. 

Jon had expected her to be sad.

He hadn’t expected her soft grin.

“Of course he did, the oaf,” she said gently, and he was struck by the fact that his tougher-than-nails aunt looked a bit like a schoolgirl. “Did he write it himself?” she asked.

He fished the scroll from the folds where he kept it.

“Not sure what his handwriting looks like,” he said, passing it over to her.

She took it gently, looking across the words hungrily. Her fingers traced the postscript.

“He did,” she said finally. “That’s his writing below.”

Jon could feel questions rising in his throat — rude questions, inappropriate ones. He wanted to ask her why she’d left after the war, all the things he’d wondered as a boy. Desperate to suppress that urge, he changed the subject back.

“I’ve never met the princess,” he said suddenly. “I don’t know what he wants me to train her for. She’s not a warrior. If her guards aren’t enough, I doubt my lessons will be.”

“All Targaryens are warriors; it’s in their blood,” she replied. “And Rhaegar has long since learned that a motivated woman can fight off even a group of men.” 

She smiled slyly at her own words, and Jon’s traitorous voice spoke without his permission.

“What do you mean?”

She didn’t falter at all. 

“Never you mind,” she grinned. 

He’d often felt like there was a puzzle piece missing from the stories of the war, but he’d never felt it more than he did in this moment.

He tried to contain the question — to swallow it back down — but he was too curious.

“Why didn’t you return to Winterfell?” he asked. “After the rebellion ended — when you didn't go to King's Landing. No one ever said.”

Lyanna stilled. She seemed surprised, tilting her head at him. 

She measured her answer, as though she’d never actually been asked that question before.

“Dorne is… freer,” she told him slowly. “I didn’t want to be a lady. I never have. Here, I can just be myself.”

He considered her words. He’d been told his half-sister Arya took after Lyanna. He'd never truly seen it before, but it was plain now.

Lyanna stood, moving to stare out the open window. She didn’t seem to mind that he hadn’t responded yet.

“People forget that I never wanted to marry Robert,” she continued. He felt his eyebrows raise. “It wasn’t just that I loved Rhaegar. I didn’t _want_ to marry Robert. He was boorish. Vulgar. And my entire family pushed me toward him like a piece of cattle. I begged my father not to betroth me to him. I cried. Begged my brothers to intercede. They all insisted that Robert loved me. But I knew he didn’t, and I didn’t love him. How could I return home after that?"

There was a cold pit in his stomach.

His aunt’s hair blew in the gentle breeze as it wafted into her home. She seemed lost in thought, but  Jon just felt lost. He’d viewed the Starks as good and honorable his entire life, viewed himself as his father’s lone blemish.

And yet…

What honor was there in forcing a woman to take a husband she didn’t want?

“I’m sorry,” he said gently, and she turned to face him, surprised. “They shouldn’t have tried to force you to marry him, even if no one could’ve known what would come of it.”

Her face softened; and for a moment, she looked as young as him.

“You’ve grown to be a kind man, Jon,” she said, “but I don’t deserve all of your kindness. Every single day, I wake and think of Rhaegar, and everyday I remember what my actions cost our family. My oldest brother. My father. And I robbed Ned and Benjen of them, too.” 

Jon felt something painful lodge in his throat that his aunt still carried the weight of so much guilt.

“They don’t blame you. The Mad King killed them, not you,” he said.

“He did it because of Robert, and Robert attacked Rhaegar because of me.”

In a bizarre way, he saw her logic, but it was just so wrong. Lyanna was fervent though; she seemed to have unleashed some torrent of words that she’d longed to say.

“Once Aerys was dead, Rhaegar begged me to come to King’s Landing and be his queen. But that’s never been me. I’ve never wanted it — I’ve only ever…” she trailed off. “You can’t imagine, Jon, what it’s like to feel so much joy and have it cause so much misery. And he feels it, too. Rhaegar never wanted Elia and the children to die. We just loved each other. And look what we did.”

Her eyes were dry but miserable.

When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse.

“You shouldn’t blame yourself for what others did. And the king shouldn’t either,” he said. 

She was silent for a while, lost-looking. He wondered if she'd prefer a change of topic.

“Can you tell me a bit about them?" he asked softly. "I’ve got no idea what I’m walking into. The only time I’ve met the king was when I was knighted, and I've never even seen the princess.”

Lyanna smiled at him gratefully and returned to her seat. 

“I've never met the princess either," she said. "And Viserys was a boy when I last saw him. A bit spoiled, but precocious. He trailed Rhaegar everywhere. And Rhaegar... he's mischievous beneath the exterior. Kind. He loves his family more than anything. If you're there to help them, you will not need to tread too lightly around him.”

Jon had been intimidated on the only occasion that he’d met the king. Exhausted, dirty and winded from felling his opponents. And then he’d been given a gift he’d dreamed of time and time again, and he'd been elated. 

He had been in no place to analyze the Last Dragon back then, but he’d seemed rather serious — not at all what his aunt was describing.

Jon swallowed as he finally came to the heart of the matter.

“I’m not sure that I can help the princess," he admitted, "that I can train her enough. I'm a swordsman, aye, but not an instructor. I know how to fight, not teach.”

Her response was firm.

“Try. I’m asking you to try as hard as you can — Daenerys Targaryen cannot die, Jon. _Please_. ”

He was surprised at how deep her concern for a relative stranger ran.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because,” she replied, a small, miserable smile on her face, “I’m a weaker woman than I want to be.” 

Jon stared at her blankly.

“If you fall in love one day, you’ll understand,” she continued. “But I can’t bare the thought of him feeling any more pain than he already has.” 

There was a distinct lump in his throat. He felt it expand until it was nearly choking him.

His aunt wasn’t a weak woman at all.

“I’ll do my best to train her well,” he said gruffly. “I’ll make sure she’s safe, for you.”

She embraced him, and Jon noticed for the first time in his life how much smaller his aunt was than him. And just how much warmth that embrace contained.

Soon after, she’d gone to her kitchen to warm some food — insisting he eat before departing.

After finishing his meal, he decided it was finally time to inform the rest of his family of his new assignment.

He copied the message onto several scrolls — to Arya and Robb, to his father, to his Lady Aunt Allyria. To Sansa, who was being fostered near King’s Landing. At least he’d have one sibling nearby, even if it was the one who loved him least.

When the last raven had flown out of sight, he allowed himself one small indulgence: He wondered about Daenerys Targaryen. 

Unchained at last, his mind became insatiable. Would she be kind? Would she be a disaster with a sword — or, conversely, would she be prodigious? Was she truly as beautiful as she was proclaimed to be? Would she resent him, a bastard, coming to teach her?

Jon wasn’t certain, but he doubted any human could live up to the standards that people had set for her.

When at last it was time for him to go, his aunt saw him away with a small note of her own, wax-sealed. 

“For the king, when you have time,” she said gently, handing it to him.

He nodded to her and kicked off, northbound to King’s Landing.

* * *

**\- DANY -**

In her dreams, everything was dark again. She could feel the chafed skin of her wrists, scratched coarse and swollen from straining against the bindings.

All the ties — her blindfold, the gag, her wrists — seemed to be made of some itchy, raw fabric. 

Whenever she tried to free her hands, she felt her blistered skin scream in protest.  
Daenerys had been left alone for at least five minutes now, possibly more. It was hard to keep track of the amount of footsteps without having any benchmark for what type of room she was in.

Her captors spoke in a language she was unfamiliar with — a difficult task given that she was fluent in several. She thought it might have been Qartheen, but she wasn’t sure. 

There was something wrong with the accents.

There had been a loud commotion upstairs, followed by yelling. A furious stamping across the floor above her. 

They’d switched back to the unknown language quickly, but she’d caught a couple words in the Common Tongue as the visitor descended into wherever she was before her captors could warn the interloper against speaking.

“Why is she still in this house?”

His voice was low, furious and Westerosi. _Southern_ Westerosi.

He’d led them upstairs — all of them, she was nearly positive.

Regardless, there might not be much more time, and there would certainly be no better opportunity.

She pushed the back of her head against the rough wall behind her, using the pressure of it to dislodge her blindfold.

She blinked as starlight returned to her eyes, straining them. It was dark out, and she was nearly certain she was in a cellar.

Now that she could see, it was clear that they’d made a mistake leaving her alone. 

_Hubris_. They would regret it.

The cellar must’ve belonged to some merchant family — few smallfolk could afford a separate space, but this room was not nearly large or elaborate enough to belong to a wealthy family.

Strewn along the ground were bits of construction material, and there, in the corner, lay her salvation: a broken shard of glass.

Daenerys made her way to it as quietly as she could. With some difficulty, she managed to saw through the fabric binding her hands, pulling her gag down at last.

There was a small window at the top of the wall, through which the room’s only light came. It was too high for her to reach on her own, but her kidnappers had either not intended for her to be here or had not planned well for it. 

She could hear men walking above her, their voices shouting, but muffled.

As quietly as she could, she shoved an empty wine barrel to the wall, pausing every few moments to be sure no one was coming.

Daenerys unlatched the window and pushed it open slowly, reaching out to grip the top of it and lift herself toward the small opening.

“If I survive this, I really need to get stronger,” she whispered to herself. 

Her elbows were scratching against the wall. There was hardly a joint left on her body that wasn’t rubbed raw.

After too long, she managed to slide part of her body through the gap, crawling into the yard and remaining flat. For one brief moment, she lay there catching her breath.

Above her head, the men were much louder — the main floor’s window directly over.

And they were speaking the Common Tongue again.

“I don’t care how many excuses you give me, you stupid fuck. We’re too exposed here,” came one of the voices, harsh and masculine — the man from the stairs. “She should have been further by now.”

It seemed accented, but only the slightest bit.

She didn’t wait to figure it out, crawling to the corner of the house and peeking around the side.

No one was out front. 

The gods were truly with her — in the distance, she could see the outline of a keep she recognized. 

Her captors had only made it as far as Rosby.

By the time she made it back to the Red Keep, she’d been missing for days. She had been too afraid to call attention to herself and had hidden in the woods — sleeping beneath the shade of the trees. 

After two nights of terror that she would be caught once more, she stole a horse from a small home and rode back.

_I’ll send them ten to replace her_ , she thought guiltily.

She’d been bedraggled and dirty as she made her way into King’s Landing, but her hair was unmistakeable.

Not 15 minutes after she entered the city gates, the Kingsguard had found her, Rhaegar at their lead. The relief in his eyes overwhelmed her as she sank into his arms…

When Daenerys jolted awake, she felt terrified again.

She’d dreamed of her escape nearly every night since she’d made it to the Red Keep a few weeks prior. She always felt she was missing some clue, something that could tell her who was responsible.

_Something_.

Since her return, everyone had been falling over themselves to comfort her. Their maester. The servants. The Small Council, in particular. Rhaegar had stationed extra guards around the entrances to her room — and four more to patrol the halls leading to her own. It had been Viserys who recommended placing another two outside the castle, on the ground below the window to her chambers.

Her brothers’ concern for her touched her, but she still felt sick each morning when she woke.

Her captors had taken her from her rooms at Dragonstone as she slept — had slit the throats of her guard and one of her handmaidens. Each morning, she woke terrified that she’d see another kidnapper’s hand closing over her mouth.

She would not be returning to her ancestral home any time soon.

Her handmaids helped her dress in silence. This morning, she was not able to handle idle conversation.

She’d been on her way to the hall to break her fast when she was waylaid by the younger of her brothers. 

Viserys had taken to mocking her lightly for her jumpiness, even when accompanied by guards.

It was nasty, but then, he’d always dealt with anxiety, frustration or sadness by lashing out.

Today, she was not in the mood for it.

“Don’t,” she said coldly, before he could begin. “I will recover at my own pace.”

Viserys’s eyes narrowed. Her brother did not like being contradicted.

He tugged imperiously to straighten his own tunic, breathing deeply before he answered.

“You will never recover if everyone but me continues to treat you like you are shattered glass,” he finally let out. “There are still active threats to your safety, and everyone else is trying to make you feel comfortable.”

Her eyes widened a touch. That had been more sincere than she’d expected from him.

“What threats?” she asked, too surprised to keep her voice frigid.

“Come now, Dany,” he drawled, his voice condescending again. “You’re no peasant. No arrests of your kidnappers means they’re smart enough not to get caught. It means we’re foolish enough to let them slip by us once more.”

It sounded like a taunt in his tone, but she couldn’t deny that he was right. She’d been allowing herself to be lulled into a sense of safety around her guards.

It was merely the way he said it that chafed.

Viserys had become more biting over the years. As he’d aged, he’d become more self-assured, but that confidence had quickly knocked up against the line of arrogance. He’d begun interjecting more and more in Rhaegar’s council meetings — acting the king, rather than the heir.

Sometimes, it bothered her that he seemed to be so increasingly assertive of his position. But the older Rhaegar got without taking another wife or fathering another child, the more likely it became that Viserys _would_ be king.

She supposed she couldn’t fault him for trying to establish that relationship with the others in the Red Keep, even if his attitude sometimes came off cold or childish.

She grabbed his wrist softly.

“Thank you for telling me the truth,” she said. Her voice was quiet and delicate.

“Always, sweet sister,” he replied, as he ran the back of his other hand’s fingers over her cheek. 

Viserys’s eyes were always fervid and wild — sometimes they frightened her.

Today, they didn’t.

***

Daenerys had pondered Viserys’s words all through her meal.

_Bite_.

It was an organization.

_Chew_.

They’d been exceedingly cautious not to let her understand them — cautious enough to learn another language, for she was certain now that it had been poor Qartheen. That demonstrated that they were intelligent.

_Swallow_.

Whoever hired them knew her well enough to know what languages she spoke. At the very least, they had access to someone at Dragonstone. At the very worst, it was someone she trusted.

Rhaegar had been trying to hide his anxiety from her, but she’d thought it more just part of his personality. It seemed clearer now why he’d been so adamant that she receive self-defense lessons — surprising that it had taken Viserys’s blunt words to drive the risk of another attempt home.

The problem was, she wasn't sure she trusted a stranger to give them.

Daenerys had asked if Ser Barristan could be spared a few hours per week, or even Ser Jaime. But Rhaegar was resolved: His own guards were not available often enough to train her; and with her captors on the loose, no one could rule out attempts on Viserys or himself. 

There were simply not enough Kingsguard to spare.

_Speak of the devil_.

Rhaegar had come to the hall, dressed in his sparring attire. He seemed to be in better spirits than he had been in weeks.

“You don’t seem to be broody enough to be my brother,” she joked as he joined her at the table. “Have you found me an instructor who satisfies your lofty standards?”

“I have, in fact,” he replied.

She was surprised — she’d been jesting. Perhaps he _had_ decided to let Ser Barristan train her.

“Your instructor will be Ser Jon Snow — he’s Ned Stark’s son and a fine knight. He has agreed to come train you; he’s on his way to King’s Landing now.”

Ned Stark’s _son_?  Just how old was her instructor-to-be?

Her mouth must’ve been agape, because the smile on Rhaegar’s face faded a bit.

“What is it, Daenerys?” he asked, and he sounded tired.

“Lord Stark’s children are… not very old,” she said politely, mouth stretched to something between a grimace and a question. “Surely someone more experienced…”

She trailed off, uncertain. Daenerys had never actually met Jon Snow, and he _was_ a knight. Perhaps she was being unfair... but still.

Rhaegar was still looking at her, waiting for her to finish.

“If he’s near my own age, he must not have been a knight very long,” she said at last. “Is there no one more suited to training me? He has no real wartime experience.”

She felt guilty immediately when she saw the look on her brother’s face — as though he’d expected better from her.

“He is the nephew of Ser Arthur Dayne,” he said. “Ser Arthur is the greatest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms. Jon squired for him, and he’s learned a great deal from him.”

His voice wasn’t terse, but he seemed almost disappointed that he needed to remind her.

And he _had_ needed to remind her — she’d been made to learn the family trees of all of Westeros’s highborn as a child, but she’d forgotten that Jon Snow was a doubly highborn bastard. 

Lady Ashara Dayne had died in childbirth, but she’d been a lady through and through.

Still, a thought nagged at her. Daenerys did not share the continent’s distaste for bastards, but to become a knight so young was rare enough. To do so without a powerful last name…

“How did he get knighted?” burst out of her without her consent, her restraint entirely betrayed. 

But Rhaegar merely smiled indulgently. 

“There was a tourney in the Riverlands several years ago — do you remember?” he asked.

She did, though only vaguely. She hadn’t attended. 

Viserys had departed Dragonstone without her.

“Jon Snow was younger and greener than many of the competitors, but he outmatched them all. There could be no doubt watching him that he’s kin to the Sword of the Morning. He fought like 10 men would — and with the skill of men much older than him. I was riveted; I offered him a gift. Anything he wanted, I said.”

Daenerys was surprised. Her oldest brother was a renowned swordsman in his own right and was not easily impressed.

His eyes were brighter than she usually got to see them as he recounted the story — his posture was straighter.

_Jon Snow must be extraordinary_ , she thought.

“He asked to be knighted?”

“No,” and Rhaegar’s grin widened further. “He asked to join the Kingsguard.”

She felt her eyebrow raise again; what bastard wouldn’t ask to be legitimized?

“And you said no?” she asked.

“I told him to wait. The Kingsguard is a lifelong oath, and he was barely a man grown. If he still wants to forswear a wife and family in several more years, he’d make an excellent addition. But I knighted him all the same. He deserved it.”

Daenerys ran a hand through her hair, still unsure but resigned.

“Alright, your grace,” she said softly. “I will accept Ser Snow as an instructor.”

He reached out and touched her cheek gently. His hands were always warm — not like Viserys’s.

He was the last dragon, after all.

“My dear sister, how many times must I remind you to call me Rhaegar? I am your brother before your king.”

She smiled into his palm and reached up to hug him.

“Thank you, Rhaegar,” she muttered into his chest.

She could hear the pain in his reply —

“I’ll always protect you, Dany.”


	2. JON I.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's part 2! From here on out, we'll be alternating POV between Jon and Dany each chapter. As always, thanks for reading.

* * *

\- **JON -**

* * *

The princess had not lived up to the stories of her beauty — she’d exceeded them.

Jon had made good time on his ride to the Red Keep, winning back a small part of the hours he’d spent at Lyanna’s.

When he made it to the gates, the guards had been expecting him. He’d been led swiftly through and into the castle, where he was greeted by a familiar face — his uncle, Ser Arthur Dayne.

“Jon,” he greeted. 

He had spent the majority of his childhood looking up to his uncle. 

The Sword of the Morning, greatest fighter in the Seven Kingdoms: Kingsguard. Honorable. Chivalrous. 

Legendary.

Jon knew his father loved him, but Ned Stark had always been ashamed of his weakness in siring him, that he had broken his vows to Catelyn for Ashara. He felt guilty for forcing his lady wife to raise proof of his betrayal beside her own children. He never said it, but Jon could see it.

His father did not often express pride in him… at least, not while Lady Catelyn was around.

But if Jon had once wished for Aunt Lyanna to take him home with her, he had practically vibrated out of his chair when his father came to tell him that his uncle had offered to squire him. 

The idea of being selected by the greatest swordsman on the continent — and, if he was honest with himself, the idea of finally being first-choice to a member of his family — was almost too much for him.

Even now, after years by his side, it was hard for him not to stand up straighter — the desire for his approval overwhelming.

“Uncle,” he said solemnly. 

The knight raised a brow at his surliness and then smiled, crossing to embrace him.

“How are you?” Arthur asked as he pulled back. They exchanged a few quick words — their health, Aunt Allyria and the like.

The conversation ended sooner than he wanted it to. Duty was the death of it.

“We’ll dine together this evening,” Arthur said, “and catch up properly then. But for now, you’ll need to rinse and dress quickly. The king would like an audience with you as soon as possible.”

Jon was surprised that Rhaegar himself would see him so soon after arrival, but he brushed the feeling away.

“Aye, I look forward to it,” he said.

Arthur clapped him on the shoulder with one more smile before he directed him to a servant girl.

The girl — who’d said her name was Jena — led him across the castle to what would be his chambers; they were well-appointed. Spacious, even. 

But it was clear that someone had been sent ahead while he spoke with his uncle; a bath had already been drawn for him. 

It was welcome. A long ride under the southern sun had left him rank and sweat-slicked, eager to clean the dirt off himself.

He’d tried to hurry along, his uncle’s words fresh in his mind. 

_As soon as possible_. It was best not to keep a king waiting.

He dressed and exited his chambers, where another escort waited. This one was a palace guard, young but serious. A three-headed dragon stood out fiercely on his shined armor.

The guard had led him to the king — but not to the throne room, as Jon had expected. 

Instead, he’d been brought out to the courtyard, where Rhaegar waited with several members of the Kingsguard standing behind him — his uncle included.

Rhaegar Targaryen had barely changed at all since Jon last saw him: He was still tall and thin — his hair shoulder-length and silver and loose.

Jon stepped into the courtyard and kneeled quickly.

“Your grace,” he said, his head down.

“No need for that,” came the king’s voice from directly above him. He’d made his way to Jon remarkably swiftly.

Jon stood and nodded once, as refined as he could manage.

“I apologize for my delay. I was in Dorne visiting Lady Allyria Dayne when I received your missive. I -” he hesitated, “I stopped to pass along your words to my other aunt, Lady Lyanna, before departing.”

Much like Lyanna, Rhaegar’s face grew hungry at her name. But h e maintained his composure much better than she had.

“And how is Lady Stark?” he asked softly.

“She’s faring well,” Jon replied. He pulled the scroll out and extended it toward the king. “She asked me to give you this.”

Rhaegar took the small letter from him as though it were a priceless treasure — delicate and fragile.  Not for the first time in the last few days, Jon wondered how they’d managed to remain apart from each other.

When the king spoke again, his voice was composed.

“I appreciate you making haste. The situation here is quite serious. As you are probably aware, my sister was captured several weeks ago.”

Jon replied hesitantly. “I’d heard. To be honest, your grace, I think most of Westeros has by now.”

Rhaegar nodded, conceding the point. “What have you heard about her escape?”

He blanched. “Nothing. Well — more like everything, actually. No one’s got a clue. Some of the theories are…” Jon trailed off, shaking his head.

The king was silent for a moment, seeming lost in thought. Jon matched him, waiting.

“Daenerys was very lucky,” Rhaegar said at last. “We have not publicized the manner of her escape, because we didn’t want her attackers to learn from their mistakes. Do you understand?”

Jon nodded.

“It seems they did not intend for her to be in this particular home in Rosby. An argument broke out, they left her unattended, and she was able to cut through her bindings with debris from the cellar. She fled the house and hid in the woods for several days before stealing a horse to ride back to the Red Keep.”

The truth was more simple than he had expected.

“You’re concerned that if something happened again, they wouldn’t make the mistake of leaving her alone a second time.” Jon finished.

“It's unlikely that they would, but our greater concern is that they seem particularly knowledgable about my sister's skills."

Truthfully, he had no idea what that meant. It must've shown on his face, for moments later, Rhaegar elaborated.

"Daenerys speaks quite a few languages, and her captors were well-informed which ones. They learned some Qartheen to communicate in front of her without her understanding."

_That_ surprised him in a rather ugly way. Qartheen was notoriously difficult, and learning a language to conduct a kidnapping seemed rather high-level. 

"Where was she taken from?" Jon asked.

"Daenerys typically splits her time between King’s Landing and Dragonstone. She was at our ancestral home when she was taken, but she has resided here since. She will remain here until the threat is concluded, but even with her increased guard, I would be more comfortable if she could defend herself.”

And there it was.

Jon hesitated before asking the question he’d been wondering since he first received the raven: “Your grace… I’m honored you trust me with this, but with all due respect… why me? Your Kingsguard is made up of some of the finest swordsmen in Westeros.”

Behind Rhaegar, he could see his uncle standing straight and tall — Dawn in its scabbard by his waist.

The king’s face fell a bit. “We are… not as far along in our investigation as I would like us to be. The Small Council feels it’s best if the Kingsguard continue to protect me and Viserys full-time, as he is my heir.” Rhaegar stopped speaking abruptly, hesitating. He looked down at the letter from Lyanna, still clutched in his grip, before he began again: “…Dany is not comfortable with strangers at the moment. I thought perhaps someone nearer to her own age, a relative of a man she’s known since birth, might put her more at ease.”

It made sense, in a strange way, but Jon was quite certain there was something missing.  Some part of the puzzle that he wasn’t permitted to know.

“I understand, your grace,” he said — more to break the tension than anything.

It worked. Rhaegar shook off his melancholy like a mutt shaking off water. 

He looked around the yard briefly before meeting Jon’s gaze again. When he next spoke, his voice was much more cheerful.

“Before I introduce you to my sister, I was hoping you would indulge me in some sparring. It’s been a long time since I tested myself against someone other than my own guards.”

Rhaegar drew his sword — rolling his fingers over the hilt to stretch them and turning the blade in a graceful fight-eight. 

Jon’s back stiffened, surprised; he felt a bead of sweat form on his neck that was entirely unrelated to the temperature. He had not expected a test of his skills, and that was surely what this was.

“It would be an honor, your grace,” he replied nervously.

How did one spar with a king? Did you let him win? Did you soften your blows?

Would his head be taken if he nicked him?

The king seemed to read his thoughts.

“Don’t worry. No harm will come to you so long as you fight your best. However, if you let me win, I may be forced to throw you in our dungeons.”

His face and voice were somber until you reached his eyes — they were mischievous.

Rhaegar ordered his men to the shade of the courtyard sides ‘to guard his dignity.’ A few more lighthearted words — a command not to let anyone else outdoors unless he was winning. 

Jon could see a tiny smirk form on the face of one of the White Cloaks and realized with a jolt that it was Jaime Lannister.

Rhaegar settled into a proper fighting stance and smiled — gleaming and predatory. Jon was struck by the untimely realization that this was the man his aunt had described to him, the man she’d run away with.

He settled into his stance as well, drawing his own sword from its scabbard. 

“Remember… _try_ , Ser Jon,” Rhaegar said, and then he moved.

His first, stupid thought was that the king was good.

He came toward him quickly, sword slicing through the air. Jon blocked him and returned the hit. 

And then they were off: The two of them moved across the courtyard. Rhaegar was light on his feet but not as fast as his uncle. He thrust his sword forward and the king deflected it; Jon rotated in time to stop a blow of his own. 

They kept going — he wasn’t sure how long for, but there... There it was. A mistake, at last.

Rhaegar brought his sword across in a swing, and Jon parried the blow —it had been high, far too high. He twisted his body, dropping beneath it to use the sword’s own momentum, a trick he'd learned from his uncle. 

He rotated his own blade in his hands so he was gripping it backwards and then butted the hilt of the king’s, knocking it straight from his hands and onto the stone below.

He kicked the sword away and thrust his own toward Rhaegar, the blade stopping a foot from his neck. He did not dare get any closer.

His curls were were sweat-slicked against his forehead.

For a beat, there was no movement but for their heaving chests. Then the king’s face broke out into an excited grin.

“You see, sister?” he called. “He fights like his uncle, as I told you.”

Jon dropped his sword arm down and swiveled his head rapidly.

He had no idea when she’d arrived; but there, standing in the shade, was the princess.

And hells take him, Daenerys Targaryen was _truly_ breathtaking.

She wore a pale blue gown, lighter than the morning sky. Her hair was the same shade as the king’s, but it tumbled down to near-waist length. Several elaborate, southern braids wrapped around her head like a crown.

Her skin was white as snow, and _hells_ , her eyes were trained on him. Bright purple and intense. Analyzing.

It cost him a supreme effort to blink, to look away.

Rhaegar moved to his side and clapped him on the shoulder.

“May I present my sister, Princess Daenerys of House Targaryen,” he said proudly. “Dany, this is Ser Jon Snow of Winterfell. He has come to instruct you in self-defense.”

Jon’s brow twitched — surely she had been told he was coming?

The thoughts flitted away as she stepped toward him, out of the shade. The sunlight illuminated her skin; she turned from silver to gold, a bright beam that scorched his mouth drier than a desert.

“Hello, Ser Jon,” she said softly.

His heart was pounding. He needed to compose himself; he was a man grown — and a knight, at that. This behavior was beneath his dignity.

_And_ , came the ugly thought, _he was a bastard, beneath her dignity._

“You fought well,” she continued politely. “Your uncle often ignores my brother’s wishes and allows him to win. It’s nice to see someone knock a sword from his hand.”

Her voice sounded like bells.

“Thank you, princess,” he managed, more composed than he’d thought it would sound. “It was just good luck.” 

It was all he could come up with. He had never — _never_ — been this hopeless in front of a woman.

_Not just a woman_ , he reminded himself. The most beautiful woman in the world, indeed.

“I look forward to beginning our lessons,” she said. Her voice was detached; her fierce eyes had drifted toward her brother. He spoke without thinking.

“We can begin them now, if you wish.”

He was a _foolish,_ ridiculous man.

“Or later, of course,” he stuttered out at her surprised look. “I just meant — whenever you want.”

He was half-ready for Rhaegar to relieve him of his duties on the spot.

“Now? I’m wearing a gown,” she said — her face was confused.

He grappled with how to repair his hasty, reflexive offer. “To be honest,” he started, “it’s best to learn to defend yourself in what you’d actually be wearing, but I suppose you’re right.” His skin felt like it was burning. “Until you learn the basics, perhaps it’s best you practice in trousers, if you’ve got them.”

Her eyes became contemplative once more. Beside him, Rhaegar was nodding, too.

“A fair point — perhaps we should get some more movable clothes made for you, Dany,” came the king’s voice. “You need to be able to, if necessary.” He seemed sincerely concerned, and  Jon could not believe he’d managed to recover from that rubbish.

“Indeed,” the princess said. She was still staring at him with that calculating look, as though he were a puzzle just slightly more complicated than she’d expected. “If it please you, Ser Jon, we could begin our lessons after we break our fasts tomorrow.”

_ If it please him. _

Her manners were impeccable.

“Of course, princess,” he replied.

She nodded and excused herself. As she turned and walked back inside, Jon stared after her, berating himself for his behavior. 

Later, as he lay in his bed, he allowed himself just a few minutes to wonder how the gods had crafted such a perfect human.

***

Perfect was relative, it seemed.

For all of Daenerys’s beauty, she had positively the _least_ natural talent with a blade that he’d ever seen.

She’d come to meet him directly after they broke their fasts the next morning, just as she’d said she would. 

His first thought was that he was surprised how seriously she seemed to have taken his comments on her attire. Unlike the day before, she wore trousers, with a soft-looking shirt tucked into them. She’d tied her hair back completely — some elaborate style that seemed to begin in many braids and trail down to one.

Daenerys was polite, but it was clear she wasn’t comfortable with him. He’d brought two practice swords to the hall with him that morning, and as they began to make their way to the courtyard, she’d offered to carry one.

He’d declined — insisting he was fine to bring them both. After that, the walk had been completely silent. He could barely hear her breathe.

That was alright. He didn’t know what to say, either.

The heat in King’s Landing still felt stifling to him, no matter how long he remained outside of Winterfell. Jon was relieved that he’d come from Dorne — if he’d been elsewhere with only his heavy Northern garments to wear, he thought he might have baked alive in them.

The princess didn’t seem to have the same aversion to the weather, standing there quietly in her long sleeves. 

“So,” he began, mainly to break the silence. “Tell me a bit about your experience. Have you ever tried using a sword before?”

She shook her head hesitantly. “No, I’ve… I don’t really think I’ve ever learned how to fight someone. With any weapon.”

Jon had suspected that would be the case, but his heart fell all the same. She seemed to read the look on his face, and her eyes tightened at his disapproval.

He was struck by the feeling that she was a woman who saw everything.

He would need to be very careful with Daenerys Targaryen.

“Aye,” he replied, “most women don’t receive training. But it was worth asking.”

He crossed over to her and handed her one of the wooden practice swords.

“Try swinging it, and we’ll go from there.”

Jon had known it was unlikely she’d be anything close to good… but still. It didn’t bode well when the princess’s first attempt to lift a practice sword above her waist resulted in her wrists giving out, the weight dragging the end toward the ground.

By her third attempt to actually swing it, it was clear his worst fears would be realized: Daenerys was disastrously untrained. Worse, even, than he’d thought.

The sword-end had dropped to nearly knee-height by the time she completed a swing — down fromthe chest-height she’d begun at.

“Alright, that was a bad idea,” he said, holding a hand up before she could try a fourth swing.

She looked at him, and for the first time since they’d met, she seemed horribly affronted.

“I’ve only just started,” she said frostily. Her cold tone didn’t match her cheeks — they were hot with either embarrassment or irritation. 

A bead of sweat slipped into her shirt, and his eyes watched it. “You can’t give up teaching me just because I’m not an immediate prodigy.”  
He bit back a laugh, unsure if she’d take it poorly — settling instead on a small smile.

She’d rested the tip of the blade against the stone, a glare on her face.

“I didn’t mean that training you was a bad idea,” he said. “But starting with a longsword was a mistake. We’ll begin with lighter weaponry, closer-range types, and we can move back to the sword once you’ve developed a bit more upper-body strength.”

She stared at him for a minute, processing him. Jon thought her eyes might devour him whole.

“Alright,” she finally said. “What were you thinking?”

He took her practice sword from her and crossed the courtyard swiftly, stepping into the shade where he’d left his things crumpled on a stone bench.

Against his will, he turned to look back and her. Their eyes met, and Jon felt like he’d be hit by lightning. He dropped his sword and hers on top of his discarded vest before returning to her.

“If it’s alright with you,” he hesitated, “maybe we start without a weapon at all.”

She tilted her head at him, questioning. “Rhaegar said you’re supposed to be training me with a sword. Isn’t that why you're here?”

She didn’t sound condescending — just curious.

“…Aye,” he replied. “It is.” He wasn’t sure how to phrase the next part. “The thing is, you’re… well, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not very strong.” 

She bristled for a moment and then deflated.

“I suppose compared to an attacker, I’m not,” she allowed, a slight pout forming. She seemed horribly disappointed with herself. He tried not to grin.

“That’ll come with time. Point is, you may not always be able to get a weapon, or someone may take it from you, and in that situation, you’ll want to be able to fight without one.”

She inhaled sharply. “Fine,” she said. “No weapons today.”

Once she'd agreed to it, she dropped all hesitance. He told her to make a fist.

She did, bringing one up by her chest. He spent a moment adjusting the way she closed her fingers — “Don’t tuck your thumb inside; you’ll be more likely to break it.” — and then her stance. Then he came and stood directly in front of her.

He put his palm up by his chest.

“Punch my hand,” he said, and she dropped her fists in surprise.

“What?” she asked.

“Hit my hand, as hard as you can.” he repeated.

She bit her lip for a moment, and when she released it from between her teeth, it was slightly wet. He ignored it to the best of his ability (which was to say, not at all).

When Robb ever heard what a pathetic boy he had turned into standing before her, he would never hear the end of it.

Then Daenerys lifted her fists again, and a spike of surprised pleasure cut through his thoughts. This time, she’d self-corrected her thumbs.

_She’s smart_ , he thought. _She learns quickly._

Perhaps she would not be a disaster to teach, after all.

She punched him then, only just off from the center of his palm, and he was surprised by the force of it.

He corrected her form one more time, and then they went again and again. 

He taught her where on the body to aim for, if she thought she could only get one shot in.  He showed her how best to block an incoming hit (“You’re most likely going to be smaller than any attacker, so don’t try and block them with brute force. The goal is to get behind it and use their own momentum against them.”) and how to break a grip on her wrists (“Yank down, forcefully, toward the direction of their thumbs.”)

They practiced for a couple of hours — Daenerys showed no sign of interest in ending their lesson. The sweat accumulated on his body; the sun was unforgiving. But she pressed on. She never even asked for a break.

Eventually, uncertain if she was waiting for him, he suggested they call it for the day.

Winded, they walked out of the courtyard in an amicable silence.

“I will be strong enough soon, you know,” she said quietly as they re-entered the shade of the palace. “To parry your sword.”

Daenerys’s face was red from exertion — her hair was messy, entire chunks of her braid sticking out. Her clothes were soaked with sweat, but her eyes were fierce again, a challenge inside them.

Even drenched and red-faced, she was still the most gorgeous creature he’d ever laid eyes on.

He grinned at her brightly. “I don’t doubt that you will.”

For the first time all morning, her gaze softened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have decided I will attempt to post info/snippets/update news for this fic on my Tumblr, if anyone is looking for that kind of thing. You can find me at esteriivy dot tumblr dot com :).


	3. DAENERYS I.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay, everyone. Real life's been quite busy lately, and I've got to be very careful with these early chapters with regards to spoiling things for later. I'm hoping to have 4 out with much less time between it than came between Chs. 2 & 3.

* * *

**\- DAENERYS -**

* * *

By the end of their third lesson, Daenerys was no longer certain that Ser Jon Snow himself wasn’t part of some elaborate plot to end her.

She had spent the majority of her years reading. Listening and learning. 

A lifetime of studying languages in a palace did not build a warrior, and she was _well_ aware of that.  She had never, not for a moment, been foolish enough to believe she would be a natural at combat. 

Nevertheless, it seemed she had failed to anticipate just how heavy a toll the activity would take on her body.

Daenerys was determined not to quit a lesson before Ser Jon said it was alright to stop, but he seemed to barely exert himself during their lessons. She, on the other hand, had left each session red-faced and airless.

Her instructor had been in King’s Landing for one full week now — they’d agreed to meet every other day, in order to give her body time to recover between lessons.

So far, he had been… _kind_ to her. 

There was no other word for it, really. 

Ser Jon was unfailingly respectful to her, eased her into each new movement he taught — checked _frequently_ if she was comfortable with the pace.

Until this session.

This time, he began their instruction by demanding she run laps around the courtyard.

“How many?” she had asked him.

“I want to test your endurance,” he replied, straight-faced as ever. “Jog until you’re having trouble.”

Daenerys had completed what she considered a truly pitiful number of laps when her chest began to burn. Just a few more circles, and it felt like flames were licking the inside of her lungs. She needed to stop. 

It was hard not to grimace at her own performance.

Ser Jon, to his credit, hadn’t. He just took note of the number she’d managed before moving on.

He made her review all the moves and blocks he’d taught her during their first two meetings.

Then, the remainder of the lesson focused on teaching her what areas of another’s physique were weakest. 

He highlighted different pressure points on his own body and had her push her fingers against them until he tapped out. Over and over, he made her prod at him until she could find the nerves without much searching.

The temple. Behind his ear and just above the jaw. The soft skin of his throat where it met his collarbone.

It looked painful.

She could see every wince blossom on his face moments before he’d tap out.

It made Daenerys feel guilty.

At least, she had right up until the end of their instruction, when he insisted she run the same amount of laps she did earlier _plus one_.

The sun was hot above them. Even with a relatively low-intensity class, she felt a bit fatigued.

After her second set of laps, Daenerys was wheezing so hard that she thoroughly regretted having felt any sympathies for him at all.

Jon Snow, on the other hand, looked perfect fine. He’d run the laps with her — slower, she was certain, than he was capable of.

When they finished, she dropped herself onto the stone without a shred of grace.  The warm ground beneath her wasn’t soothing in the slightest, but her body was screaming for relief.

“You shouldn’t sit right after running.” 

The knight’s voice cut across her suddenly, and she glared at him. 

That was easy for him to say, standing there looking as though he’d done nothing at all. She eyed him; he’d barely even broken a sweat.

“My legs hurt, Ser Jon,” she said acerbically. “I realize it may not have been difficult for you, but I’m unaccustomed to running laps.”

Jon Snow didn’t look chastened in the slightest. Instead he made his way over to where she sat.

“Your muscles will cramp up if you go straight from exercise to rest,” he said. “It’s alright if you need a break, but until your body cools down, it’s best you walk slowly. Or at least stand. Or you’ll hurt more later.”

He smiled at her and held his palm out.

His eyes were soft, and her legs _did_ feel a bit more sore than she'd expected at rest.

Hesitantly, she placed her hand in his. Ser Jon wrapped his fingers around and pulled her to her feet in one swift motion, releasing her as soon as she was steady and upright.

Gods, he was strong. He’d barely tried, and her entire body had lifted from the ground.

For a moment, it felt like she had flown.

“How bad’s the pain?” he asked kindly.

“I really don’t like you right now,” was her snotty reply.

He snorted out a laugh, and Daenerys realized it was the first genuine grin she’d seen from Jon Snow since she met him.

Together, they made their way toward the shaded walkway just off the courtyard.

The silence between them was surprisingly awkward — Daenerys had little trouble conversing with him during lessons, but this was the first time they’d dawdled together afterwards.

“Are you enjoying your return to King’s Landing so far?” she finally asked, more to break the silence than anything. “I assume you served here when you squired for Ser Arthur.”

He seemed a bit taken aback that she’d asked him anything at all.

“Aye — uh,” he started. “I mean, yes, princess. I lived here a few years. I don’t love the capital, though. Too many people. Not much space.”

It was the most she’d ever heard him say.

But Ser Jon seemed to be battling with himself; his face was at war — he looked profoundly uncomfortable.

Daenerys wasn’t sure when she decided to put him out of his misery; it simply came out: “Whatever it is you’re trying to decide if you should say to me, you can say it,” she said.

His cheeks reddened a bit.

“That obvious?” he asked her. 

She arched a brow in response.

“I guess I… I’m surprised I never met you when I squired for my uncle,” he said. “The king said you split your time between here and Dragonstone, but I never saw you once in the years I was in King’s Landing.”

Daenerys was surprised that of all the things in the world to think of, this had been the one on his mind. But still — she indulged it, oddly flattered though his words were simple fact.

“I lived in Dragonstone for most of my life,” she said. “I didn’t begin splitting my time between there and here until around two years ago. Before that, I rarely came to the capital.”

Now Jon Snow seemed surprised. “What made you decide to come here, after all that time?”

She shrugged, as gracefully as one could manage such a motion.

“My brother said that I should learn more about how the kingdoms are run. And that he wanted to see me more often,” she grinned. “He’s the king. I do as he commands.”

Ser Jon looked discomfited. It irritated her.

“What?” she said. "You have an issue with a woman learning to rule?"

He shook his head lightly. “Not at all, princess.”

“Clearly you have an opinion,” she said, tempering her voice.

“It's not my place. I guess I just… well, I just wonder why he waited so long, is all.” His face was beet red now.

She realized with a slap of clarity that he wasn't being dismissive of her. Just curious. 

Guilt stained her cheeks. She shouldn't have snapped at him.

The tension in her spine relaxed.  This time, when she spoke, her voice was kinder.

“I'm sorry," she said. "Several of my brother's Small Council have expressed disapproval over my increased role. I'm... sensitive to it."

"I didn't mean that at all," he replied.

"I know. My mistake. I’m sure you are aware that my brother has taken no wife since Princess Elia’s death.”

Jon nodded to her slowly.

“The older my brother gets without marrying, the more likely it is that Viserys will be the next king. And if he is king of the Seven Kingdoms, I will most likely inherit Dragonstone… until he has children, of course.”

He nodded back, still flushed. “Makes sense, of course. As I said, wasn’t my place.” For a moment, he opened and closed his mouth, looking uncertain. Then, abruptly, he straightened. “I should go. I'm supposed to meet with my uncle. By your leave, princess.”

Daenerys inclined her head, surprised by his rapid departure.  She’d barely finished lifting her head back up when he was gone.

***

One thing Tyrion Lannister was good for was a straightforward answer. 

“I don’t have good news,” was how he opened their conversation.

She repressed a sigh.

Tyrion had been serving in his father’s stead as Hand of the King for near four moons now, but Daenerys’s sense of accomplishment had not yet worn off.

Tywin Lannister had been her father’s Hand, too. After the war, he sent his men to help Rhaegar rebuild the parts of King’s Landing that had been destroyed, sparing little expense to do it.

Her brother had been grateful — but not grateful enough to give Tywin the thing he wanted most: for Rhaegar to marry his daughter Cersei.

It had been Aerys who rejected the proposal the first time Tywin made it. To have Rhaegar do it once more had been taken as a rather large insult, but her brother had been resolute.

Tywin had tried then to have Jaime released from his vows. That refusal, at least, could be blamed on Jaime himself.

The elder Lannister brother had flatly refused to leave the Kingsguard, and Tywin was left furious.

The best that the new king could offer was to retain him as Hand and to arrange a marriage between Cersei and Willas Tyrell, who was just a few years her junior and the heir to Highgarden.

It was far from what Tywin had sought: Willas had a crippled leg, and wardeness of the South was not the same caliber title as queen. 

But the Lannister-Tyrell alliance was a formidable one — joining two of the wealthiest houses in all of Westeros.

All of Rhaegar’s advisors had privately counseled him against it. 

Every single one of them. 

Ultimately, however, he’d had little else he could offer the Lannister patriarch without losing his favor, and the realm needed peace.

As displeased as he’d been, Tywin had accepted, and he had served as Hand of the King for all the intervening years.

But the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands could not properly oversee all of the west from inside King’s Landing; and he’d refused, under any circumstances, to give his younger son control of Casterly Rock.

It wasn’t as grave a concern in the long summer, but with winter on the horizon, it was no longer suitable to have a west that was effectively warden-less.

Viserys thought Rhaegar should name Kevan Lannister warden in Tywin’s stead.

Daenerys hadn’t agreed. She’d gone to her elder brother privately, certain that Tywin would cause some form of ruckus if either title was stripped from him.

The downside of marrying Cersei Lannister to the Tyrells was that the two families, being the wealthiest in Westeros, held rather more power than was wise.

She’d argued that Rhaegar could allow Tywin to formally retain both titles — with Tyrion acting as Hand whenever his father was not at court.

It would free the Lannister patriarch to manage the Westerlands, would separate Tyrion and his father from one another (none would argue against the benefits of that) and, most importantly, preserve peace.

Rhaegar had listened to her.

Viserys had complained for weeks that their brother had ignored his suggestion — she’d held her tongue, considering it indecorous to brag to him.

But inside, it was hard to tamp down the joy at being taken seriously — even if Tywin had responded rather worse than she’d have liked him to.

From what Daenerys heard, his rage had been terrible to behold. Being replaced by the son he loved least was a mighty blow to his pride, and no amount of assurances that he technically remained Hand had made a difference.

He’d calmed only when Rhaegar had threatened to remove him as warden entirely, insisting that Tywin either oversee his region’s preparations for winter or forfeit the title.

But things had settled a bit. Tyrion was, in effect, the Hand of the King, and Tywin had visited just once. 

He’d spent less than a moon in King’s Landing for what Tyrion seemed to believe was little more than an attempt to remind him of his dominance.

Daenerys kept her action to herself, but in spite of her silence, Tyrion seemed keenly aware that it had been her words that saw him rise to his position, and he normally went out of his way to ensure her happiness.

Not right now, however.

“Truthfully, princess, I don’t have much new information,” he repeated. Absentmindedly, he fiddled with the pin on his clothing.

“What _do_ you have?” she asked quietly.

She’d wanted to meet with him in private, and he’d obliged. The two of them sat in her solar, Tyrion clutching a goblet tightly in his fist.

He’d poured a glass for Daenerys, too. That should’ve been her first clue that this meeting would be disappointing.

“We know little more than we did, but what we’ve learned is troubling,” he said. “There are rumors of Essosi sellswords arriving at ports across Westeros. Small numbers only at each port, but a substantial increase when combined.”

She felt a small shudder run down her spine.

“A company?” she asked.

Tyrion paused for a moment and then nodded, resigned. “Yes, we believe so. The Golden Company, perhaps. Or the Second Sons. We’re not certain. Varys’s little birds are investigating.”

This time, the shudder was harder to ignore.

“The Golden Company?” she asked. “Don’t they have thousands of men? Why would anyone hire them, if not for a large battle?”

The unasked question: Who could afford to hire them — especially in secret?

It didn’t matter that she did not voice her true concern; Tyrion answered it anyway.

“They may not have hired the entire company, but the threat is still very real. They are accomplished sellswords. They do not break contracts.” Tyrion’s mouth twitched for a moment, as though his body was rejecting his next words. “As for who hired them… suffice to say the list of suspects hasn’t yielded much so far. We are,” he paused again, “reasonably certain it wasn’t any of those who work in Dragonstone’s castle.

Daenerys tried to conceal her discomfort. The sophistication of her kidnappers, their access to her rooms, their knowledge of her specific skills… most of it could have been explained away by a mole in the staff. 

But if they’d each been cleared, then it seemed Viserys was right.

No one was willing to admit the obvious truth: Someone she trusted had betrayed her, and each passing day made it harder to believe that person would be caught before they tried something again.

“Viserys seems to believe we’re on borrowed time until a second incident,” she said finally.

Tyrion took another deep swallow from his goblet before responding. “I’m aware. The prince has been quite critical of our progress.”

Despite the dry tone in Tyrion’s voice, Daenerys felt a small warmth in her chest.

Arrogant and hard as he could be to her, it seemed her brother cared enough to cause a ruckus behind the scenes.

“I imagine he’s been quite calm about it,” she said with a small grin.

Tyrion’s mouth pulled up.

“Oh, certainly. Behavior fit for a future king,” he replied. The dwarf slid off his seat, crossing the room to grab a crystal carafe and refill his goblet.

Daenerys finally reached out to take a sip of her own. 

Dornish wine — it was delicious.

It was like a wave crested above her suddenly — an intense feeling of despair crashing over her without warning.

“I don’t understand why this is happening,” she said quietly.

Tyrion froze, hand still on the carafe.

“Why _what_ is happening, princess?” he asked softly.

“All… this,” she said, gesturing around. “Hiring Essosi sellswords to kidnap me? And then do what? Rhaegar is still king, and Viserys is still his heir — all this would succeed in doing is infuriating him. I don’t understand the goal.”

Tyrion eyed her strangely, considering her. His head was tilted.

She stared back.

“I think you might be…” he paused, weighing his words, “ _underestimating_ your brother’s concern for your life. A captor would have significant leverage, if the bargain was you.”

It was an ugly thought.

“Who are you concerned about?” she asked. “Who on the suspect list gives you pause?”

He grimaced immediately.

“I wish I had a better idea. Each option seems as unlikely as the last.”

She waved him back toward her, and he shuffled over, face pulled down. When he’d finally retaken his seat, she lifted her goblet.

“Thank you, Lord Hand. For keeping me apprised.”

“I’m not technically Hand of the King,” he replied softly. 

Daenerys rolled her eyes. “Are you going to drink with me or not, Tyrion?”

He nodded, a small twitch at his lips. “That, I can do.”

***

Rhaegar would be irritated with her when he heard that she’d slipped away from her guards for a walk around the palace, but Daenerys felt like she couldn’t breathe with armed security surrounding her day and night.

And the Red Keep was practically crawling with guards these days. 

She’d stayed within the walls of the castle, pondering her discussion with Tyrion.

It was hard to fathom what could be exchanged for her. Gold seemed to be the obvious answer, but hiring the Golden Company — or any other sellswords, really — suggested whoever was behind this already had plenty.

And it seemed like an expensive way to kill her, if that was the ultimate goal. One man with an arrow or one servant with poison would be significantly cheaper.

A strange shuffling sound cut across her thoughts.

A grunt and then something high — almost like a whistle.

The flesh on her arms rose, goosebumps arriving at once.

Another grunt and a metallic clang.

Daenerys curled her body into the shadows, inching toward the noise.

She relaxed only when she realized what the sound was: Ser Jon was practicing in the yard.

Spying was undignified, but still… she paused, and slunk back behind a pillar, intrigued. 

It had been Rhaegar’s idea to stage a sparring match before he made their introduction. Her brother insisted that seeing him fight would soften her to the idea of him instructing her.

He had been right. Try as she might, Daenerys couldn’t deny that he’d fought well against Rhaegar. And he’d been kind to her so far in their lessons.

But still… it was harder now than ever for her to relax around a stranger.

Especially one whom she was quite sure could overpower her in seconds.

She eyed him again as he practiced the same complex motion with his blade, over and over again. 

Over. Down. Twist. Diagonal.

He switched his grip midway through the movement.

Daenerys tried to get a better look at his face — to see anything of Ser Arthur living on it — but Jon Snow was pure Stark. Curly dark hair. A somewhat long, serious face.

The only resemblance that he bore to the Daynes were his eyes. Purple, like her own. 

She couldn’t deny that Ser Jon was an attractive man, for whatever it was worth.

Especially right now, with his skin shiny — slick with perspiration. 

He was practicing in some of the thinner, lighter clothing favored by Southerners. The fabric clung to the grooves of his muscles, the hard lines visible through them wherever the cloth was stuck to his sweat-covered skin.

Daenerys shook her head lightly, clearing her thoughts.

Yes, Ser Jon was an attractive man… but that was irrelevant.

He was here to teach her, and that was all. Her time would be much better spent trying to decipher who in her brother’s court had enough connections in Essos to hire a mercenary group.

Or determining the true origin of her captors.

Or anything else, really, aside from spying on her instructor as he practiced.

At that thought, she slipped back into the shadows and turned to head inside.

But just before she crossed the threshold, she glanced back. 

Ser Jon was running his hand through his hair, brushing the curls back from his forehead. An unfamiliar feeling began to grow in her stomach.

She went inside quickly, before it had a chance to blossom.

Another night of Qartheen translations awaited her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading. And as always, feel free to leave me any thoughts or questions -- either here, or on Tumblr (esteriivy). <3


	4. JON II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Managed to get this done, but I'm on vacation abroad, so I apologize for the lack of moodboard hahaha. This chapter clocks in around 5K words, which is about 2/3 more than each of the previous two. I expect that as the story progresses, the chapters will likely get longer. Good news is beginning with Ch. 5, we're getting into some of the things I originally conceptualized this story from. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy!

**“All things are ready, if our mind be so.”  
** _― William Shakespeare, Henry V_

* * *

**JON**.

* * *

Jon woke to the news that his sister was in the Red Keep.

Sansa Stark had arrived first thing that morning — so early that the stars had only just left the sky. She hadn’t sent ahead a raven, though he supposed that she may have made a spontaneous decision to join the Lord Velaryon on his journey in.

He suspected there was more to it than that.

Ned Stark’s eldest daughter, well-mannered and beautiful as she was, was an ideal prospect for a good marriage. But no manner of Northern heir tempted her. 

Nor Dorne’s Trystane Martell. Nor Cersei and Willas Tyrell’s son, Joffrey. There was only one betrothal his sister was interested in: Prince Viserys.

Unlike generations of Targaryens before them, Viserys and Daenerys were forbidden from wedding one another. 

The king had decreed it shortly after taking his throne. He’d framed it as a concession to the Faith of the Seven in order to shore up their support, and the decision had been met positively by the people. But the more time that passed, the more it appeared that it had been carefully calculated. 

Between Rhaegar’s lack of heirs and the decimation of the Targaryen family, the numbers simply were not there for an intermarriage to be plausible. Anyone willing to take a hard look at reality could see that the best chance for their name to survive would be to have two separate lines of children.

 _And_ , people whispered in the shadows, _no one was willing to risk another inbred ruler_. 

Not after Aerys.

All in all, it was good news for his sister, who had dreamed practically since birth of a handsome prince that would sweep her away to a palace in the south. Lady Catelyn had indulged her, allowing Sansa to leave Winterfell a few years prior. 

In a more traditional set of circumstances, his sister would have hoped to be fostered at the Red Keep. But Rhaegar had no wife for her to be fostered by, no daughter for her to be raised alongside.

The only woman in the family was Daenerys, who did not even live in King’s Landing. Sending Sansa to be one of her ladies-in-waiting had been broached as an option but ultimately dismissed: Daenerys had plenty of ladies already, and none of her other handmaids were daughters of lords paramount.

It would be taken poorly by the other kingdoms — particularly Dorne, considering Sansa's surname.

Instead, after voracious negotiation, Sansa had been fostered by Master of Ships Monford Velaryon and his wife. As close allies to the crown, the Velaryons were of suitable status to oversee her. 

It was ironic that after everything, Sansa hadn’t quite managed to move to King’s Landing. The Velaryons lived on Driftmark, just west of Dragonstone. By ship, it a little under three days’ journey to the Red Keep, and Lord Velaryon made the trip frequently.

Jon tried to be positive and believe that his sister was in King's Landing to visit him, but he was relatively certain that Sansa’s baser motivations were at play.

He had been surprised to learn that Viserys was just as enamored with her as she was with him. Sansa had been prone to fanciful flights of imagination in her youth; but this, it appeared, was quite serious.

Jon had met Viserys several times before his arrival at the Red Keep — first at the tourney where he had been knighted. And again when he’d come to the capital. 

On both occasions, he’d found the prince to be cocky, self-satisfied and condescending. He couldn’t be further from Daenerys in personality. 

The princess was humble and hard-working; her brother… suffice to say, Jon drew little pleasure from the knowledge that Viserys would replace Rhaegar on the Iron Throne someday.

Perhaps the one good thing he had to say about the prince was that when it came to Sansa, he’d done right by her. Viserys had made little secret of his affections; and shortly after she had traveled south, he’d asked his brother for permission to become betrothed to her.

The only problem was that it had been several years, and Rhaegar Targaryen had not yet given his approval.

It was a regular source of tension in the Stark household. On each occasion that Jon visited home, the mere mention of it was enough to cause every shoulder to stiffen.

The more time that went by, the more pointed Catelyn’s remarks became. She’d gone so far as to comment that she would have hoped Lyanna would have done more to aid her niece before Ned had finally snapped at her.

Now, it was only ever terse silence.

Once, while he and Robb were getting drunk, his brother had put a quiet voice to what they all privately knew: Sansa was far from the only eligible maiden in the Seven Kingdoms who wanted to wed the crown prince. 

And what was more? Her competition was strong.

Arianne Martell, whose family had already been disrespected by the king (though the Martells had largely forgiven him after he avenged Elia’s murder). There was Margaery Tyrell, who would make the Tyrells far too powerful but would also temper some of Tywin’s leverage. Even young Shireen Baratheon had been floated as a possibility — a way to mend the relationship between the Targaryens and Baratheons. Shireen was disfigured from sickness, but the Baratheons had Targaryen blood — a compelling conspiracy choice for those who believed the royal family still harbored a desire to keep their line pure.

Jon privately felt that Shireen, at least, seemed unlikely. But Arianne? Margaery? They each had just as many pros and cons as Sansa did.

He wondered sometimes if his sister could feel his uncertainty. She always seemed rather uncomfortable with him.

When she was small, she hadn’t treated him differently than their other siblings. And even now, she was never outright rude or hostile.

Hells, sometimes she was outright sweet to him. When he’d been knighted, she’d jumped to her feet to cheer, her grin matching his beaming father's.

But sometimes, _other_ times… He supposed it was unfair of him to judge her by her expressions — Sansa looked more like Lady Catelyn than the rest of the Stark children combined.

Jon never failed to see his father’s wife when he looked at his eldest sister.

But it did not fail to cross his mind that he often made the overtures in their relationship. Once in a while, he wondered if she kept in touch with him because she wanted to or because she felt that she was expected to.

The bastard of Winterfell, and the crown prince’s lover. What a spectrum the Stark children fell across.

***

Jon had managed the evening before to convince his uncle to spar with him. Arthur had aged a bit since his absolute prime, but he was still the Sword of the Morning — the greatest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms. 

And it had been ages since he’d gotten to practice properly against him.

He was meant to meet with him in less than an hour, but Jon wanted to get outside early and warm up. He’d gotten nearly halfway there when a soft voice came from behind him.

“Ser Jon Snow,” it said. Jon pivoted abruptly.

_Lord Varys._

Jon had been acquainted with The Spider when he squired, but only ever in the vaguest of ways.

The Master of Whispers delighted in knowing everything there was to know about each person in the Red Keep, but the comings and goings of a bastard squire had been low on even his list of priorities.

Time seemed not to have touched the man. He was exactly as Jon remembered him: bald and pale, heavyset. And reeking of flowers — lilacs and rosewater.

The sweet scent and dulcet tones entirely at odds with his shrewd, calculating gaze.

“Lord Varys,” he replied. “It’s been quite a while.”

Varys tilted his head politely. “And so it has. Are you enjoying your return to the capital?”

Jon considered himself a rather straightforward, simple man. He tried to be clear and upfront, like his father. Conversations like this made him feel like he was taking a test with some strange, obscure answer lurking just beyond his reach.

“Would be easier to enjoy if I were called back for a less grim reason,” Jon said. “But it is good to see my uncle again.”

“Yes, I dare say it must be… I did see you sparring with the king the other day in the courtyard. You fight so very like Ser Arthur.”

Varys’s beady eyes were on him again, but Jon truly didn’t care to guess what the man hoped to gain from that prod. He was surprised, however, to learn that Varys had been watching him. He hadn't realized that.

“I did squire for him for several years,” Jon shrugged uncomfortably. “I beg your pardon, Lord Varys, but I was actually planning to meet him out by the courtyard shortly.”

Varys allowed one of his small, smirking smiles.

“Then by all means, don’t let me make you late. We’ll walk and talk, shall we?”

_Damn it._

He nodded reluctantly, and the bald man moved beside him, matching his strides.

“How are your lessons with the princess fairing?” he asked. 

The Spider was slippery as an eel; Jon wanted nothing to do with it.

“So far, so good. She learns quickly,” he replied. 

( _‘Let Varys try and pull something from_ that _worthless husk of an answer,_ ’ he thought.)

But Varys just nodded.

“Indeed, she has always been quite the quick study. When she was young, you know, she begged the king to let her learn to ride horses. When he finally agreed, you could hardly get her off of one until she’d near mastered the sport.”

Jon found himself fascinated against his will. Daenerys seemed to have that power over him, even in her absence.

“She hadn’t mentioned it,” he allowed.

Varys’s eyes found him quickly: “I imagine she hasn’t mentioned many of her talents. She’s also an accomplished linguist; she speaks _several_ languages, you know.”

And now it was Jon’s turn to eye him.

While it was not actually that strange for a person who’d spent his life as a spymaster in service of the royal family to know those types of things, Jon found it discomfiting that he should mention the one that so many people seemed to keep going back to: Her affinity for languages.

“Aye,” he said carefully. “The king mentioned that. I understand that was one of their concerns about the kidnappers — that they knew about her language skills.”

Far from being threatened by his comment, Varys’s face grew delighted.

They were just steps away from the courtyard now.

“How lovely it is to have a _new_ person to talk to. For so long, only Lord Tyrion has been available to banter with, and he is so very fond of eunuch jokes,” Varys tittered. "But don't worry, Ser Jon. If I were to spill one of the princess's secrets, I imagine I'd be more interested in fire than foreign dialects."

 _'Fire?'_ Jon thought. Varys's voice was airy; and it stoked the flames in his brain.

But before Jon could respond, he saw a flash of white from the corner of his eye.

He turned, and there was Daenerys, resplendent in one of her gowns.

Her hair was mostly loose this afternoon.

“Hello Lord Varys, Ser Jon,” she said, looking at each of them in turn.

Several paces behind her stood three palace guards. Jon eyed them for a moment before turning his attention back to her.

“Princess,” he said politely.

She opened her mouth as though to begin speaking, but it seemed whatever she’d come to discuss would have to wait.

A clamoring sound came from behind them, and suddenly the king was racing out toward them. Jon’s uncle and several others were in tow. He could see Tyrion Lannister, racing to keep pace, Maester Pycelle was with them. Lord Monford, even. 

He noted that Viserys and Sansa were not among the group.

Rhaegar threw his arms around Daenerys as he reached her, pulling back as though checking for any injury.

“There you are, sister!” he exclaimed. “Are you alright?”

Daenerys seemed puzzled.

“Of course I’m alright…” she was silent for a beat. “What happened?”

It seemed that it was Tyrion’s cue to speak.

“There’s been an incident,” he said reluctantly.

Jon eyed him sharply. 

The Hand of the King looked _exceedingly_ uncomfortable.

“What sort of incident?” Jon asked before he could help himself. It was impertinent, though no one seemed to care.

“There were… notes left for Daenerys,” he finished, looking away.

“Notes?” came her voice from beside him. “As in _more than one_ note?”

If anything, Tyrion’s discomfort increased.

“Three,” he said. “Left in various places that you frequent. They were rather upsetting, to say the least. A housemaid found one while cleaning. We were alerted to two more by your handmaid, Jena. She is unhurt, of course.”

His stomach churned more and more with each additional detail.

Taped to the stone hearth in her solar: _‘Do you think you’re safe, princess?’_

Inside her chambers: ‘ _Is there anyone you can trust, Daenerys?’_

Even at the seat where she broke her fast most mornings: ‘ _You can’t hide from us._ ’

The hair on his arms stood on end; some impossible feeling welled up inside his chest.

Every fiber of his body screamed for him to turn to Daenerys, to assess her state, but he held himself back. It wasn’t his place.

And besides, if Jon could not quite sort the emotions he felt at the sight of those letters, then the king had exceeded him. It seemed that verifying Daenerys's safety had allowed him to re-channel his rage.

He could not recall the last time he’d seen something as potent as Rhaegar’s fury. It was quiet. Building. Deadly.

At present, it was directed toward Lord Varys.

“I have made it exceedingly clear that no one should be to access my sister’s rooms without supervision, have I not?”

“Yes, your grace,” The Spider replied deferentially. 

“And I have given you access to whatever resources are necessary to _find out_ who is responsible for this, have I not?

This time, there was no hiding Varys’s grimace.

“Indeed, you have.”

Each response seemed to ratchet up Rhaegar’s tone a bit further.

One by one, he spit questions toward the assembled group. Hardly anyone was left unscathed.

Just as Jon was beginning to suspect that he would be the next casualty, Daenerys’s voice cut across.

“Ser Jon,” she said suddenly. Rhaegar fell silent. “Would you take issue with us increasing our lessons? Six days, perhaps? Or five at least, if you prefer.” He stared at her blankly as she continued speaking: “I’m not good enough yet. I need to be better.”

He could not resist any longer, he turned and met her eyes.

They were wild, rocketing back and forth across his face. Their intensity felt like a physical weight pushing into his chest.

He could feel Tyrion Lannister’s eyes on him; behind him, Lord Varys was a presence.

Jon met the princess’s gaze. She held his proudly — but there it was, just the slightest, most imperceptible twitch of her lips.

He knew suddenly, _certainly_ , that Daenerys Targaryen was terrified. Behind her, Rhaegar was contemplative.

“Aye, we’re going to increase our lessons. Starting right now. But you can’t practice in that. You need to change.”

It was a mark of how far they’d come in the last week that Daenerys didn’t argue. She didn’t even blink.

“Can someone send for one of the princess’s ladies?” Jon asked the assembled group. “Have them bring a change of clothes for her to my chambers.”

Varys looked to Rhaegar. At his silence, The Spider inclined his head and pivoted, gliding back into the castle in his unsettling way.

In front of him, Maester Pycelle was balking.

“The princess cannot be alone in your chambers as she changes — it’s highly inappropriate.”

Jon turned to him swiftly, an angry, violent feeling pulsing in his chest. “I beg your pardon, grand maester, but we’ve no idea who left these notes. I realize no one wants to be the one to say it, but whoever did this obviously has access to her bedroom. My chamber has one door and no balcony. Until we are certain there’s nothing else in her rooms waiting for her, it would be much easier to guard the door to my own room than all several of hers.” 

With a deep, shaking breath, he turned to face the king, who was staring at him intently, and Daenerys, the only person whose opinion Jon truly gave a damn about. “If that is alright with your grace,” he finished, “and you, Daenerys.”

Pycelle turned toward Rhaegar, outraged. But when the king spoke at last, it seemed he had no interest in placating the old man.

“Maester, we leave many things to your learned judgment, but my sister’s security is not one of them,” Rhaegar said. He turned back to Jon and nodded. “Go. I’ll send her other guards to sweep her rooms inch by inch.”

Jon inclined his head — when he lifted it back, his uncle had lodged his gaze on him.

 _Careful,_ Arthur’s eyes said. _Be careful what assurances of safety you promise to a dragon._

His jaw notched down a fraction in acknowledgment. 

When he finally looked back at Daenerys, there was an unreadable look on her face. 

She took a few tentative steps toward him. 

“Let’s go,” she finally said. He nodded.

Jon took off toward the palace, Daenerys a half-step behind him.

He could understand why everyone had raced to find her when the letters were found, but he didn’t like it.

The castle was too large.

It had too many corners.

Jon had no idea how he’d become the princess’s de facto shield, but it was an assignment he wasn’t willing to gamble with.

“Careful,” he said, as they approached the first corner. Jon drew his sword — if they were ambushed in any way, he’d have no time to unsheathe it.

“Do you think that will be necessary?” she asked. Her voice was high and thin.

“No,” he said reflexively. “But I’d be guessing either way.”

She swallowed and — after a moment — nodded to him. 

They made their way to his chambers rather quietly, tension simmering inside his veins.

When they arrived, he quickly cleared the room. Her practice clothes were laying folded on his featherbed.

Now that they were here, Jon’s body seemed to finally comprehend that in moments, Daenerys would be stripped down in his bedroom.

There was simply no room for thoughts like that.

“Go on,” he said. “I’ll guard the door. Shout if you need me.”

The door closed behind her, and Jon turned to face the hall.

It was silent as a graveyard.

_***_

If anything, the terror had focused her.

“You want to be especially careful if someone’s got a knife to you — even if they’re not actually trying to kill you, hitting them could cause them to jolt and do it by accident.”

Daenerys looked more serious than he’d seen her yet.

“Tell me what to do,” she said.

He did. 

Daenerys had been trying at her other practices, but today was different. She watched him like a hawk. Like a maester who was about to perform a surgery.

Like prey, watching a predator’s every move.

And it was reflected. Nearly half an hour in, he decided to throw his lesson plan to the winds. 

“Come here,” he said suddenly.

“What?” she asked, taken aback.

“We’re going to free spar. Don’t worry; I won’t use full strength or anything. Just want you to practice blocking when you don’t know what’s coming.”

She nodded, fingers running over her plait the way they did whenever she was nervous.

“I… alright.” Daenerys stepped a bit closer to him and slightly lifted her arms. “Ready,” she said.

Jon pounced. He came toward her with a rounding punch; she blocked it. Sloppily, but still.

They danced for a minute or two before he swept out her leg, catching her before she could crash into the ground.

She felt small in his arms. He set her back on her feet gently, this treasure of a girl. Her face looked horribly put out. Her cheeks were bright pink.

“You cheated,” she exclaimed the second he released her.

“It’s an easy way to stop you from fighting back. Don’t expect someone to play by your rules in a fight.”

Daenerys pouted a bit before she straightened up. “Again,” she said.

He smiled.

And so it went: Jon tried sweeping her again; but sensing the attack, she jumped his leg. He pinned her arms once, trying hard not to think about another reason to be in such a position. 

The longer they went, the better she was responding. A chorus of “ready” and “again” filled the yard.

He lunged for her once more, fist thrown forward,

She ducked, her silvery braid whipping behind her. A blinding streak of white. 

Just one moment before it happened, he realized that it was going to. And then a small fist crashed into his ribs.

Daenerys had landed a punch on him.

He wheezed for a moment.

 _A good punch_.

The moment she’d made contact, Daenerys had leaped back in surprise, hands coming to cover her mouth.

“I’m sorry!” she cried out through her fingers. “Did I hurt you?!”

He almost — _almost_ — laughed.

“No, princess,” he said. “That was good.”

She lowered her hands slowly, down to clutch her tunic instead of her skin. Her cheeks were flushed.

“Did you…” she started. “Did you let me land that?”

He shook his head, unable to control the smile he knew was forming on it.

“I didn’t.”

Daenerys blushed, and the sight of her pink cheeks left him winded. 

“You’re lying,” she pressed. “I’ve never landed a hit on you.” Her voice was artificially thin, and he could tell just from looking at her that Daenerys desperately wanted to have hit him. 

He unsheathed the dagger and handed it to her. She gripped it nervously, as though afraid the hilt may slice her open.

How very unlike Arya she was.

“First lesson,” he said with a lift of his lips, “stick ‘em with the pointy end.”

Daenerys’s shoulders sagged as she exhaled something that he thought sounded amused.

Jon gave her a small smile. 

“Don’t worry. You learn everything quickly,” he said.

Her eyes crinkled and then softened, her sharp exterior slipping from her like a snake shedding its skin. Daenerys looked younger this way. Less imposing.

It was suffocating.

By the time they’d finished their first proper weapons lesson, Jon was feeling rather proud.

Daenerys had been far from _good_ , but she’d certainly been better with the dagger than he’d expected from her.

For the first time since he’d arrived in the Red Keep, he felt like he’d turned a corner in their instruction.

It stood to reason, then, that she’d knock him clear off his perch. 

“You called me Daenerys earlier, in front of my brother and his council,” she said as he gathered his things. “Instead of princess or your highness or any of my titles.” Her voice was impossible to read.

Jon felt himself flush — he hadn’t realized he’d done so. They’d conversed just a few times, and already, he’d started to think of her like she was some ordinary woman instead of third-in-line to the throne.

He was a knight, for the gods’ sake — and a bastard knight, at that.

“I apologize, princess,” he said sheepishly. “I forgot myself.”

Before he could pull away — distance himself from his own behavior — the strangest thing occurred. The princess reached out and grabbed his forearm, stilling him.

“It’s alright, Ser Jon,” she said gently. “You can call me Daenerys.”

It was the first time she’d touched him outside a lesson, and he found that the intention of it magnified the feeling. The skin of his arm felt like it had burned, just from its brief contact with her skin.

He met her violet eyes, his own washing over her face. Clear, bright skin. Plump lips.

 _Gods, she was something_.

“It’s not appropriate,” he said. His voice was hoarse.

She arched a brow at him. “We are acquainted, are we not?”

“I… yes. Of course,” Jon stuttered.

“And acquaintances use each other’s names, do they not?”

She was so sharp. So certain.

“It’s not quite the same,” he said.

Daenerys sniffed at him. “And if I were to demand you do so? As your princess?”

She finally dropped her hand from his arm; the loss of contact was like a slap.

“Aye, then I suppose I’d have to follow your command,” he allowed.

She allowed a satisfied grin to surface. The cat who’d gotten the cream.

“Then you will call me by my name, Ser Jon,” she said.

“It’s just Jon,” he replied before he could stop himself. Daenerys paused. “If I’m using your name without a title, then surely you don’t have to call me Ser,” he finished.

After a moment, she nodded. Her smile was kinder now.

If only his body would react to her presence the way that his mind knew it must; it didn’t do at all for him to imagine himself grasping for something so far beyond him.

For the thousandth time, Jon felt a jolt of frustration at his namelessness. Princesses were not meant for bastards to covet.

And that pained him more than it should have, because the more time he spent with her, the more certain he became that no woman in the world would ever hold a candle to Daenerys Targaryen.

***

It had been a strange choice to come here, to do so unannounced and at this hour.

Jon knocked on the heavy, ornate door.

In less time than it should’ve taken, the wooden gateway creaked open.

Tyrion Lannister stood before him. 

It was clear that Jon had worried for nothing; there was no chance the dwarf had turned in for the evening. He was fully dressed and alert.

“My lord,” Jon greeted — a lifetime of highborn manners rushing back. “Would it be alright if I came in?”

Tyrion had yet to respond, but he stood aside, allowing him to cross the threshold.

Jon made his way into the room.

“Nightcap?” came Tyrion’s wry voice. “I rather think we deserve one after the day we’ve had.”

He turned and saw the dwarf by a small table, holding a carafe of wine. 

Jon nodded.

Tyrion grinned. “Ser Jon, I am so glad you’re here.”

***

There was a man in the hallway, perched in the shadows like a cat waiting for its supper.

“Jon Snow, is that right?” the man asked as he pushed off the wall.

He’d seen him before; he was sure of it. But he couldn’t place the face to a name. 

“Ser Jon Snow, technically,” he replied. The hair on his flesh was standing up straight — a gut feeling that this man was dangerous.

“Of course,” the man said. “ _Ser_ Jon.” A beat. “Do you know who I am?”

“Can’t say that I do,” Jon replied. 

Mentally, he took stock of his weapons: He’d brought his sword with him — unwilling to walk without it now that the threat was so obviously nearby. The dagger he’d taught Daenerys with was tucked into a strap on his belt.

“Petyr Baelish,” the man said. “I grew up with your father’s wife, Lady Catelyn.”

Jon had an eerie feeling that the comment was designed to set him at ease. But the thought of Catelyn Stark was anything but settling to him.

Particularly in light of this _specific_ man’s identity. 

Baelish had rather recently made his way to court. Though he held no formal position, he’d become something of a fixture at Small Council meetings. 

His father wasn’t a fan of Baelish. Ned had even squabbled with Catelyn over it the last time Jon had been back in Winterfell — one of the few fights between them that Jon had witnessed in his memory.

Jon was in no mood to humor someone like him.

“I know the name,” he replied. “My father says you once challenged his brother for Lady Catelyn’s hand.”

A low blow, but an intentional one. A necessary one.

Baelish’s mouth tightened. His spine straightened. Eyes soured.

_There it is. A chink in the armor._

“Your father would recount that story. But alas. Brandon was always the family’s strongest fighter. If I realized I could’ve waited and challenged Ned instead, perhaps I would have.”

A subtle comment — easy to pass off as a joke — but still, it was rather bold to joke about Jon’s uncle’s death.

He eyed the man again.

“What brings you to Tyrion Lannister’s chambers, Lord Baelish?” Jon asked.

“I was about to ask you the same,” he replied. His voice was back to its light, sneering tone. “What business does the bastard of Winterfell have with the Hand of the King?”

Jon bristled as he always did when his birth was used against him.

“I’m not sure I see how that’s any of _your_ business, Baelish,” he said, dropping the honorific.

The thin man made his way closer still.

“I simply worry for our princess’s safety. Surely you see how Tywin Lannister’s son taking unscheduled meetings in the night seems a bit… suspicious,” Baelish answered. His tone had become more overtly mocking.

But the voice was nothing — _nothing_ — to the implication that Jon was involved in the plans to hurt Daenerys. 

The wolf inside him snarled, demanded that he draw his blade, that he challenge this insult. But he kept himself measured. 

Petyr Baelish was obviously trying to provoke him. Any rash action or response from him could be viewed suspiciously by the royal family, who he was sure Baelish would not hesitate to run to.

“Neither Tyrion nor myself want any harm to come to the princess. We were simply getting acquainted,” he said in a voice far calmer than he felt. “If that’s all, it’s time for me to retire.”

The greedy light in Baelish’s eyes had dimmed a bit at his reply, though Jon was not at all convinced this would be the last of it.

“Of course,” the man said in his oily voice. “Goodnight, Jon _Snow_.”

Jon could feel Baelish’s gaze on his back the entire way down the hall; he couldn’t help but keep his hand near his dagger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always -- hit me up here or Tumblr :). <3


	5. DAENERYS II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahah, what? No, YOU took forever on this chapter.
> 
> But seriously, a thousand apologies, everyone. I went abroad for two weeks, and when I got back, I promptly caught the flu. It's been a TIME.
> 
> Without further ado, chapter 5.

******The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.**

_-Mark Twain_

* * *

**DANY.**

* * *

It had been three weeks since the letters.

Three unsettling weeks. And despite searching every corner of the castle — questioning every person in the Red Keep — they were no closer to discovering who had left those threatening notes in her chambers.

It was almost as if they had been placed there by a ghost, who’d vanished into the ether shortly after.

The first evening back in her room, she’d hardly been able to sleep from fear. Daenerys had rolled around on her featherbed, eyes wide open, jumping at every sound.

She regretted her decision not to ask Jon if she could borrow his dagger.

But as the nights passed, her stiff shoulders relaxed. Slowly, she became more comfortable.

Now, she was suffering a different sort of ailment: She felt stifled.

Rhaegar had insisted that she remain in the castle since the incident; and remain, she had. 

Daenerys hadn’t left the Red Keep once since the letters, and it had begun to feel like the stone walls were closing in on her. There were only so many days in a row that she could spend in the library. Only so many nights she could take a bath to relax.

She felt as though she’d been locked in a cage. A gilded cage, to be sure, but trapped nonetheless.

After an evening so boring that she’d considered demanding her handmaids play Cyvasse with her, Daenerys decided she’d had enough.

She would make Rhaegar see reason.

She broke her fast early the next morning; and the moment she finished, she made her way to the king’s chambers. Ser Arthur and Ser Jaime were guarding the outer door when she arrived.

“Good morning,” she said brightly. “I need to see my brother.”

Ser Arthur cleared his throat, a tight look forming on his face.

The longer she knew Jon, the more similarities she could see between him and his uncle. Though they had little in common looks-wise, they carried themselves in a like manner. They made similar expressions. This look, she’d come to realize, meant she was about to get uncomfortable news.

“His grace is currently meeting with the crown prince,” Arthur said. “It’s not likely to be an agreeable meeting.”

The Sword of the Morning was always so reserved. So professional. But not every member of the Kingsguard was.

She turned to Jaime Lannister. “Is that your assessment as well, Ser Jaime?”

The lion’s voice was dry, but there was a strange glint in his eye. “It’s not gone well any of the other times Prince Viserys has tried it.”

An odd answer.

Daenerys steeled herself. “Very well. Nevertheless, I must speak with him. I’ll wait in his solar until they finish.”

Ser Arthur nodded obligingly, and she passed by them into her brother's outer room. She could hear their voices through the heavy wooden door.

As she approached the wall separating her from Rhaegar's bedroom, the voices became clearer.

“If it’s alliances you’re worried about, then set up a betrothal for Daenerys!”

She hadn’t been certain what Ser Arthur and Ser Jaime were alluding to; but she certainly would not have expected _that_.

Marrying had always been an abstract concept to her. Objectively, she knew that one day, she would be expected to wed some lord and bear his children. But Rhaegar’s reluctance to discuss the topic — and his melancholy whenever he was reminded of Elia or Lyanna — meant she’d never really grappled with its full weight. 

“She is already of marriageable age,” Viserys was insisting on the other side of the door. Her heart was pounding in her ears. “You letting her traipse around here thinking she’s learning to run a castle when she should be wedded by now —”

Rhaegar interrupted, and his voice was ice. “She _is_ learning to run a castle. Daenerys is the princess of Dragonstone. Who did you think was going to oversee our ancestral home when you’re ruling the Seven Kingdoms?”

“She’s a woman,” Viserys blustered. “I thought _you_ would return to Dragonstone.”

Viserys’s casual disregard stung more than she could’ve imagined.

Her brother had always been sharp-tongued, but he had never outright suggested he thought she was beneath him. If anything, Viserys always emphasized the otherness of Targaryens... how _special_ they were. Until now, she’d believed that philosophy extended to her.

“And if I did return? What of your sister then?” Rhaegar snarled. “You’d marry her off to some far-flung kingdom — the _last_ Targaryen woman as a broodmare for some small lord and his keep?”

A stone lodged itself in her throat. It sounded like that was _exactly_ what Viserys expected. The questions she’d never asked herself suddenly pounded at the forefront of her mind: Would she have a say in her husband if she was still unmarried when Viserys took the throne? Or would she be resigned to whoever he chose?

But it seemed that Rhaegar’s latest words had shamed him at last. For when he spoke next, he was conciliatory.

“Fine, then. A match with a younger sibling, one who won’t inherit their family’s home. Renly Baratheon isn’t the lord of Storm’s End. Loras Tyrell won’t hold Highgarden. Either of them would do.”

It was somewhat of an open secret at court that Renly and Loras were lovers. She wondered what it would be like, to marry a man who would never desire her. 

_Sad_ , she thought. It would be unbearably sad to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that her husband would never love her.

Rhaegar must’ve pointed out something to that effect, for Viserys’s voice had become higher, more strained. “Trystane Martell, then. He’s behind his sister in line for Dorne.”

Whatever Rhaegar said in reply was too soft for her to hear. All she could parse were ‘Dorne’ and ‘Lyanna.’

It seemed to infuriate Viserys, however. “Is that your final word?” he asked, his voice louder. Cold.

Rhaegar’s voice returned to its normal volume, but he didn’t raise it to their brother’s level. “It is my final word for today. We have discussed my concerns about Sansa Stark a thousand times, and you trying to marry your sister off to any house with a breathing son does nothing to convince me that you’re taking those concerns seriously. There are larger matters at play right now than me indulging your petulance.”

Daenerys’s jaw dropped. It was the harshest she’d ever heard Rhaegar speak — _ever_. He’d never talked to her in such a manner in all her life.

“My — _my_ petulance?” Viserys spluttered. “ _Me_ when you’re sitting in here _moping_ still after decades, neglecting a king’s duty —”

For the first time, Rhaegar raised his voice. “You must stop this, brother. This behavior —”

No, Daenerys did not want to be caught listening outside the door whenever this fight ended.

Quietly, she inched out of the solar and back to the hall, revealing Ser Arthur and Ser Jaime, exactly where they’d been.

Her cheeks were pink.

“Their, uh, discussion took a turn,” she said in explanation as she quietly clicked the door shut. “I’ll come back later. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t let them know how long I waited to leave.”

The smirk on Jaime Lannister’s face was entirely made of mischief.

***

She returned an hour later, more wary than she’d be on her first approach.

Ser Arthur nodded her through, and her body relaxed a fraction.

When she met her brother’s eyes, he smiled. If she hadn’t heard him fighting with Viserys not long ago, she’d never have known.

Daenerys wondered how often that sort of thing happened… how little she actually knew about the dynamics of her own family. It was a disconcerting thought.

“Dany,” he said gently.

“Brother,” she replied. A pause. One beat only. “I’d like to go into town today.”

Rhaegar’s response came practically before she’d finished her sentence. “Absolutely not.”

Targaryens were notoriously hot-tempered; she was no exception.

“Am I a prisoner now, Rhaegar?” she asked hotly. “Because if I am, then formalize it and lock me in one of our towers.”

He looked wounded.

“I’m trying to protect you, Dany,” her brother replied. “It’s not safe for you to leave the castle. It’s barely safe _here_.”

“Nothing’s happened in weeks!” she exclaimed. “And I wouldn’t be alone. I’d bring a guard. But I haven’t been to see the children in ages, and I feel like I can’t _breathe_ here.”

Before she’d been kidnapped, Daenerys had made a habit of visiting orphaned children in the capital. She brought them snacks, taught some of the older kids to read. One child had asked her to teach him Valyrian, insistent that when he was a man grown, he’d move to Essos.

Since her escape, she’d only been able to make one trip down to Flea Bottom. It had been an awkward affair. The children had been happy to see her (moons earlier than they expected her to return from Dragonstone), but her guards had been so over-attentive that the children had become nervous.

They’d been afraid to get too close to her. It was crushing to watch.

Rhaegar’s brow was furrowed, but something about her words seemed to resign him. At last, he sighed. “Fine. A short visit only. And you’ll bring three guards with you.”

Daenerys tried not to preen at the victory. “One guard,” she countered. “Too many armed men scare the kids. Last time I was there, they were frightened to come near me.”

Rhaegar scowled at her. “Two guards, or you’ll not go at all.”

She hated negotiating with a king. The balance of power was always stacked so firmly against her.

But being let out of the castle at all was still a net victory. She nodded. “Two, then.”

Rhaegar sat back in his chair, and in what was becoming increasingly common, she was hit with a feeling that he looked quite tired.

“One of them will be Ser Jon,” he said.

_Damn it._

Jon Snow had grown on her — more than she liked to admit — and the thought of spending time with him was pleasant enough.

But he was the exact opposite type of guard than what would set smallfolk at ease: aristocratic looks, a stern face and a broad longsword his hand was on the pommel of more often than not.

After excusing herself, she stalked toward Jon’s chambers, knocking hard on the wooden door.

There was a brief, shuffling noise, and then it swung open. And there he was, more disheveled than she usually saw him. His curls were loose; and for once, he wasn’t wearing anything more than a tunic. She could see his armor rested on a small table behind him.

It suited him.

But he was also wearing a look of surprise; Jon Snow seemed rather bemused to see her at his chamber door.

“My brother has given me permission to go into the city and visit with some of the children in Flea Bottom. You’re to come with me,” she said without any preamble.

His brows raised a fraction, though only for a moment. Her instructor was almost irritatingly poised: a Northman in every way. She’d wondered once or twice what it would take for him to display the hot Dornish blood that his mother must’ve given him.

That line of thought had quickly traveled somewhere she refused to acknowledge or indulge.

Jon’s mouth opened a bit — surprised, most likely, that he’d been selected.

For a moment, she thought he might push back against the edict. But then he shrugged, turning from the doorway and crossing his room to grab his longsword.

“Alright,” he said.

***

She’d thought Jon Snow was a serious man before, but gods, she’d underestimated how much.

After just a few hours outside of the Red Keep with him, she was now convinced the Jon of her lessons was him at his most outgoing.

Daenerys had prodded and poked at him for half the trip. She’d tried everything she could think of to get him to relax.

He had been normal as they traveled down to the gate together; but the moment they’d left the castle walls (a palace guard named Ser Kevan Hastwyck in tow), Jon seemed to seize up. Gone was the occasional grin he’d lob at her during their lessons.

Conversation was, for the most part, nonexistent.

He’d asked just one question: What part of Flea Bottom they were going to.

“When I’m in King’s Landing, I often visit with some of the children at the orphanage,” she replied. His eyebrows had raised a fraction once again. “It’s been a long time since I saw them last.”

It looked like Jon wanted to say something, but he just swallowed hard and nodded, turning away from her to scan the road.

And he’d been like that since. He’d brushed off her teasing. Ignored her cajoling.

Ser Kevan had indulged her, at least. He chatted with her merrily as they made their way down into Flea Bottom. 

But then, he’d been one of the palace guards for _years_. When she was younger, he’d helped her smuggle sweets from dinner during a visit.

She imagined Jon Snow had probably never smuggled anything in his life.

Somewhere along that musing, she realized that she probably shouldn’t be imagining anything about Jon Snow. It always led her back down that same troublesome, undignified road.

***

The children were disappointed in her for her long absence.

That was made abundantly clear minutes after she’d arrived, when a young girl named Tolly marched right over to tell her so. Tolly was neither the oldest nor the youngest in the orphanage, but Daenerys had been teaching her to read before she departed for Dragonstone all those moons ago.

Dany apologized solemnly. “But,” she added, “I’ve brought a new book today, and I really wanted you to read me some of it, so I hope you can forgive me.”

The girl’s stern face had lasted only seconds before it cracked, and a bright, toothy grin replaced it. She’d thrown her small arms around her neck, and it had been the first time Dany had felt any real peace since she was pulled from her bedroom.

She stayed for as long as she could, pushed Jon off twice when he’d come to suggest they wrap things up. It was only on the third occasion, when even Ser Kevan nodded regretfully and suggested they begin to head back to the Keep that she huffed out her compliance.

She said goodbye to the kids, promised not to let moons go by again, and followed Jon out into the street.

The only time this entire day that she’d seen even a hint of enjoyment on the dour knight’s face was when she was embracing Tolly in the orphanage. For one brief moment, it had looked like Jon might smile — _really_ smile.

Then he’d wiped it from his face, returning to scanning the area around them. He was still doing that now, leading their party as they made their way through the market street toward their horses.

She knew she was being a bit childish, but she couldn’t help but resent being pulled back to the castle. A few hours away was so short — more of a rest stop than an excursion.

Ser Kevan nodded his head in Jon’s direction lightly, grinning at her.

She could tell from his face that he, too, thought the Northerner needed to get out more.

Then, a strange thing occurred. Ser Kevan’s eyes widened; his smile stiffened.

A silver blade burst forward through his throat.

Time stopped.

For a beat, she couldn’t understand what had just happened, why blood was spilling from Ser Kevan’s neck.

Then the guard crumpled to the ground, dead, and she suddenly knew.

Daenerys had just enough time to let out a small shriek before a hand closed over her mouth.

For the briefest moment, her brain flatlined into pure, ineffectual _fear_ as the night of her kidnapping came rushing back to her. 

Then she caught sight of Jon’s hand, always on his sword’s pommel, moving to unsheathe it.

 _‘Don’t play by the rules, Dany,’_ came a voice in her mind that sounded suspiciously like his. 

She had no intention of it.

Her brain was running at lightning speed, but only seconds had passed. Before her attacker could make a further move, she lifted an arm, thinking of her lessons.

A hard elbow angled beneath his ribs — and at the same time, she bit down on his hand.

_Hard._

With a shout, the man’s grip on her slackened. He had instinctively leaned forward the slightest bit when she elbowed him. Dany used his mistake.

“Jon!” she screamed as she wrenched herself away from the man, throwing herself to the side. 

He barely missed a beat. Jon swung his sword with one hand and with the other, withdrew a dagger — _her practice dagger_ — from a belt by his waist.

It was out of his hand before she could blink. He rotated to assess where she was and, seeing that she’d moved from the direct line of fire, threw it.

It was lodged now in the sellsword’s head.

Around her, the residents of Flea Bottom were screaming. Mothers tucking their children behind them. Others simply running.

But the sellswords paid them no mind; they were fixed on her and Jon.

He had placed himself between her and the remaining two and was now fighting them both. At once.

Daenerys realized in that moment that she’d never actually seen him fight — _really_ fight — before. She’d seen courtyard sparring between the knight and her brother. She’d spied on him as he practiced at dusk. But she’d never truly seen a man fight the way that Jon was right now.

A surge ran through her blood, electrifying it. The feeling may have been surprise... or even just simple understanding. She had no idea how to describe it.

All Daenerys knew in that moment was that her broody, quiet instructor was another man when he fought. A bold man. A wild one.

 _Gods,_ he made it look like art. 

He slashed his sword, deflected, twisted, ducked. Jon was using the two of them against each other, darting between them, staying close enough that they could not really move toward him quickly without risking injury to the other. 

She’d heard the stories of how Ser Arthur fought. She knew then that they could not have been exaggerated, because how else could his protege move like this?

One of the men lunged at him again; but before she even had time to become terrified, Jon saw some unimaginable opening and thrusted his arm forward. 

The sellsword was dead instantly.

There was just one combatant left now. She should retrieve his dagger from her own attacker’s body, help Jon, do _something_. But she just stood there.

Daenerys felt like she’d been paralyzed.

What was all her training worth, ultimately, if she was little more than a craven standing aside idly while Jon tore through her attackers like wildfire?

And Kevan Hastwyck… The earnest guard lay dead on the dirt in Flea Bottom, an inglorious end for a good man.

The last attacker seemed to be the most talented. He and Jon were still fighting, blades clanging together sharp and loud. 

The sellsword swiped his blade, missing Jon by a hair. The air left her lungs.

But it seemed there was no need to be afraid. Jon struck back, and his aim was true.

After it was finished, when the last man was laying on the street in a pool of blood, the knight turned to her, more emotion on his face than she’d seen from him ever before.

She had wondered what it would take to shake him from his quiet persona. Now she knew.

The terror that wound itself in every crevice of his face and across his jawline loosened the slightest bit as he looked at her, standing there unharmed. But his shoulders still seemed tense. 

He’d yet to sheath his blade.

Jon crossed over to her, eyes hard and blazing. “Are you okay, Daenerys?” he asked, his brogue low and gravelly.

_No. No, I am not._

She would certainly have been captured again… would probably be _dead_ , if not for him. And yet, he was staring at her as though she’d been the one holding the sword. As though she had fought off three men alone.

The intensity on his face was more than she could stand.

Without another thought, she threw herself into Jon’s arms, clutching at him. He seemed stunned.

Daenerys could feel his body’s warmth through his shirt; his chest was still heaving from exertion.

Distantly, she became aware of a muscular, toned feeling beneath her hand. Her brain seized on it, this detail that could distract from what had just occurred. It summoned a vision of what his tan skin must look like beneath his clothing.

This was not the time for these thoughts, not at all. 

...And yet, she was suddenly so _aware_ of him. He’d fought like a demon, fiercer even. Struck down three armed men on his own in an ambush. 

_To save her._

The smell of death lingered around them. She felt like she may collapse.

Awkwardly, Jon lifted an arm to cradle her against him, a hand tucked across her shoulder. His other hand stayed gripping his sword.

She was standing in the dust of the most violent situation she’d even been in; and yet, Daenerys had never felt more protected than she did pressed against this man’s chest… This quiet man who’d absolutely, unequivocally _saved_ her.

“Thank you,” she whispered into his gambeson. “Thank you. Thank you.”

When she looked back up to meet his eyes once more, he looked stricken.

“You don’t need to thank me, Daenerys,” he said. “If you hadn’t shouted, I would’ve been too slow to stop them. You did good, getting out of his grip.”

She had done nothing at all, and she told him as much.

“Yes, you did,” he insisted. “You broke free from one of them on your own.”

That was… well… it was _technically_ true, but she’d have been recaptured in seconds had Jon not killed the man.

It wasn’t worth arguing. If Jon wanted to give her credit she didn’t deserve, she’d allow him to. He was eyeing Ser Kevan now, a miserable look on his face. 

“We’ll have to send people to recover his body,” he said quietly. “I can’t carry him and guard you at the same time.”

She nodded, feeling strangely detached. Later, she knew. Later, the guilt would come.

And when it did, she wanted to be alone.

“Stay close to me,” Jon said.

That was the easiest instruction he’d ever given her. Daenerys had no desire to let him go. None at all. 

Jon’s arms were safe.

And she could still feel the ghost of the muscle that had been beneath her palm just minutes ago.

It was probably perverse that she be so aware of his body in such a horrific moment, but as he half-escorted, half-carried her to where they’d tied their horses, she couldn’t bring herself to care.

He lifted her so she could climb on, and she’d nearly humiliated herself by asking him not to let go of her. It seemed he felt the same, though, because he pulled himself up right behind her.

She was settled now against his body, cradled between his legs.

He was all hard muscle against her back, and one hand gently gripped her waist to keep her steady.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into her ear as they rode back toward the castle. A shock went down her spine at the feeling of his warm breath on her skin. “I know I’m taking too many liberties, but I don’t know how else to guard you alone.”

He made her feel weak. If not for the fact that she was curled into him, she was sure she might slide right off the stallion.

 _Jon saved her._ It played in her mind on repeat.

She turned for a moment and met his tense eyes. “You’ve taken no liberty I wouldn’t have granted.”

Daenerys should’ve been embarrassed; she should’ve blushed at the innuendo in her words, but she couldn’t make herself regret them. On its own, it was hardly a romantic pronouncement, but there was an undercurrent to them that she couldn’t deny.

Jon's eyes widened for a moment. Clearly, he'd heard what she had. And yet, moments later, he softened.

“Aye, princess,” he exhaled.

The Red Keep was growing closer by the minute. When they arrived, she would have to let go of him. She pressed herself closer to him instinctively, displeased by the thought.

_Not until they arrived._

* * *

**?**

* * *

Sloppy. The plan had been hasty and sloppy. Something that should never have been carried out.

Daenerys Targaryen had escaped twice now, both times because of their own hubris.

She was no foolish maiden, whimpering into her tea, and Jon Snow was no lowborn infantryman who'd trained himself to fight.

There could be no more mistakes like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, Kev.
> 
> As always, you can send me questions/catch updates on Tumblr (esteriivy).
> 
> Love you all!


	6. JON III.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should apologize again for Kevan, since so many people seemed to like him.
> 
> But here you go. Some Jon POV:

**"The advantage of the emotions is that they lead us astray."**

- _Oscar Wilde_

* * *

**JON.**

* * *

Fear.

He had never felt such fear before.

It was a mark of what sort of paralysis sheer terror could induce that riding back to the Red Keep with Daenerys pressed against him had barely penetrated his mind.

They arrived back at the palace to shouted exclamations from the guards. He could only imagine what they must look like — windswept, terrified and missing a member of their party.

Distantly, Jon was aware of one of the guards shouting that he was going to fetch the king. It was as though the sound came from a different room; he felt waterlogged.

All he was certain of was that he did not want to let the princess out of his sight ever again.

Adrenaline rushed through him, deafening him. His heart was beating harder than he thought was healthy.

It was only as he dismounted and moved to help Daenerys from their horse that he finally realized her clothes were bloodied.

“Is that…” he choked out, eyes roving over her torso. “Are you hurt?” 

Even to his own ears, his voice sounded like it had been scratched raw.

She seemed surprised by his question; her eyes widening as she gazed down toward her own stomach, where a dried scarlet streak had tarnished the fabric.

“No,” she replied hoarsely. “I’m not wounded. _Are you_ —” Her voice sharpened, almost high-pitched and breathless. Daenerys’s eyes were suddenly on his, unyielding and intense.

“Jon,” she exhaled, and her voice was so airless that it nearly didn’t form.

He couldn’t tear his gaze from her frightened face, even when she looked away. Even when she grabbed at his body, hands scraping across his armor to look for a wound. His ribs ached, and he knew he’d have a nasty bruise on his chest from the hilt of one of the attacker’s blades. But Jon was almost certain that he hadn’t been stabbed.

It was only when he came to the realization that she was staining her hands with the _sellswords’_ blood that he pulled them away from his body.

“It’s alright,” he said, still clutching them. “I’m not hurt.”

Whatever Daenerys was going to say died in her throat as the doors to the hall crashed open. It seemed the king had been in a meeting, for all of his advisors had joined him.

Rhaegar looked horrified as he caught sight of the princess: covered in dirt, hair mussed and garments stained.

“Dany,” he exclaimed, and the sound of it was like the cry of a wounded animal.

Jon moved to drop her hands, mortified by his lack of decorum — he was not sure he’d ever received such an ugly look as the grand maester was currently leveling toward him. Even Lady Catelyn would struggle to match it.

But Daenerys would not have it. The moment he dropped his grip on her, she stepped closer, grabbing a fistful of his sleeve.

“Don’t,” she said desperately. “Do not step away.”

By now, the king had reached them. Rhaegar pulled Daenerys into his arms; and she reciprocated one-handed, her left still grasping Jon’s wrist.

When Rhaegar at last backed away from her, she was engulfed by her other brother.

“Sister,” Viserys said, pulling her in. The force of it yanked her hand from Jon’s shirt, and he thought he heard her whimper in protest.

The last three Targaryens, huddled together. And here he was, the bastard lurking on the sidelines of a family moment.

Still, he remained in his place. Over her brother’s shoulder, Daenerys met his eyes.

 _‘Don’t,’_ he heard her voice say again in his mind. ‘ _Do not step away_ . _’_

Tyrion’s face was drawn and white as he reached the group. “What happened?” he asked.

“Sellswords,” Jon replied quietly, meeting the dwarf’s eyes. “Three of them ambushed us, snuck up from behind as we were leaving… Ser Kevan…” Jon hesitated, then turned to Rhaegar. “Ser Kevan was killed. I was not able to carry his body back while guarding the princess. We should send someone for him, if you have men to spare, your grace.”

The king had not yet spoken again; but Jon was certain that when he did, it would not be good. His jaw was clenched tight.

“The sellswords,” Viserys interrupted, “they are dead?”

Jon nodded toward him. “Aye. D—the princess was able to break away from one, and I was able to fight them off.”

“They were Essosi; I’m certain of it,” Daenerys chimed in. “I bit the one who grabbed me, and he swore in Low Valyrian.”

Viserys’s eyes tightened as he looked across the assembled group, eyes landing on each person individually.

Lord Varys, Jon noticed, seemed particularly pale.

Rhaegar nodded stiffly at her words and then reached for Daenerys again, directing his next words at all the assembled men.

“I will escort my sister to her room so she can wash, and then I will meet you all in the Council chambers. Go. Now.”

His tone was white hot; Jon dared not linger, even as he felt Daenerys’s eyes on his back.

***

It didn’t take Rhaegar long to return to them.

They all moved to stand, but he waved them back into their seats swiftly. Then, to Jon’s surprise, the king looked directly at him.

“I’d like you to pack your belongings,” Rhaegar said. 

At once, Jon’s heart dropped into his stomach, a stunned horror fogging his mind. 

He couldn’t leave. Not now, not with the threat so high. Not with Daenerys at such risk. 

Jon was no sworn shield — no professional bodyguard — but he knew enough to know that hers were failing.

He was moments from interjecting, from displaying conduct unacceptable when speaking to a king. But then Rhaegar continued: “You are to be moved into the handmaid’s chambers adjoining my sister’s room.” 

Jon may have been shocked, but his reaction was nothing compared to the Small Council’s. Every other occupant of the room looked as though they’d been bludgeoned. 

Grand Maester Pycelle spluttered; Tyrion Lannister choked on his wine. Viserys’s jaw dropped. Even Varys’s forehead wrinkled — one of the strongest displays of surprise he’d ever seen from the man. Lord Velaryon’s face had grown red. Petyr Baelish’s eyes were narrowed.

Rhaegar seemed unfazed by the response.

“Your grace,” came Pycelle’s reedy voice. “To put him unsupervised in a room with such access to the princess is highly unorthodox. The Seven tell us—”

But Rhaegar cut across him. “The Seven have thus far failed to prevent attacks on Daenerys.” Pycelle’s face turned a nasty shade of puce, but he fell silent.

The king turned back to face Jon then, and he felt the weight of purpose settle in his chest.

“It seems clear that you are the only one who has made any legitimate progress in the task I gave you,” Rhaegar spat, eyeing his men. “My _guards_ are failing me. My _spies_ are failing me. My _advisors_ are failing me.” With every word, his tone grew colder. “My sister tells me that if any other man but you had been with her today, you would all be dead or captured. I suspect she’s right.”

He seemed to anticipate further challenges, for he headed them off: “I will hear no further arguments. My decision is final.”

There was an awkward silence throughout the solar; Jon could feel the outraged stares from several of the room’s members beating against him.

Tyrion Lannister broke the silence, sounding somewhat reluctant to do so.

“Your grace, with your permission, I will see to it that Jena is moved to new lodgings at once,” he said hesitantly.

“Good,” came the king’s clipped reply.

Not for the first time, Jon felt certain that Tyrion had not attained his position through nepotism. Escaping that room seemed like the smartest thing any man here could have done.

Before he could try a similar tactic for himself, Rhaegar addressed him again.

“My sister’s safety is my only priority. Now it is yours, too. Do you understand?” His voice was deadly serious.

“Aye,” Jon said. “Aye, your grace. I understand.”

“Good. Then you are all dismissed.”

The Small Council shuffled toward the door as quickly as they could without blatantly fleeing. Just before Jon could cross the threshold, he heard the king call to him one final time: “Ser Jon,” he said simply, “Thank you.”

***

For one short moment, Jon felt proud. Reassured. _Trusted_ in a way bastards so rarely were.

That moment ended when he closed the door behind him and was met with Viserys’s cold eyes.

The prince’s voice was seething. “A knight taught by Ser Arthur Dayne, but you neglect to leave a sellsword alive for questioning. I must wonder why.”

Jon bristled at the implication — as if _he_ were an accessory to the plot. “I mean no disrespect, _your highness_ , but he didn’t seem all that inclined to stop attacking us.”

“And yet, a detained man would certainly have had less ability to attack.” Viserys wore his anger more prominently than the king did. His eyes looked a bit wild.

It wasn’t a fair argument, but it wasn’t the type of barb that would normally bait him. This time, though… this was different. Jon felt his own frustration, his own helplessness, his own _anger_ well up and crest. Before he could calm himself, it spilled over.

“I was a bit busy stopping him from killing your sister; but next time, I’ll be sure to ask him to wait for a moment while I call the City Watch for an arrest.”

It was far too bold of him. Viserys was still a prince — the crown prince. Jon needed to stop forgetting that.

But Viserys surprised him: Instead of raging, he took a deep breath. When he exhaled, some of the rabidity had receded from his eyes. 

The anger in them hadn’t gone anywhere, though. If anything, they’d grown colder.

“You,” the prince spat, “are barely a knight. It appalls me to see _you_ given such control over my sister’s safety, such access to her as she sleeps. _You_ , who could not hear men approaching from just behind you. Who are _you_ that my brother shows you such preference?”

A passing conversation he’d had with Daenerys one lesson came to the front of his mind.

_‘Viserys idolizes Rhaegar, you know. More than anyone.’_

It wasn’t reasonable; and yet, it was suddenly understandable. Jealousy, it seemed, had power over princes and common men alike.

“You were there,” Jon said. “His grace said he was doing what the princess wanted.”

The prince’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, my sister does make her wishes known. And then my brother listens.” He turned to leave.

“I imagine you would not have done the same,” Jon said before he could stop himself.

Viserys paused. “No,” he replied slowly. “But it doesn’t really matter, does it? Rhaegar is king, and kings may do whatever they please.”

He eyed Jon one more time, contemplative. “If I were you, I’d see to it that you do not fail him. Or Dany. Otherwise, I can’t really say what might happen to you.” 

And then he was gone.

***

Baelish again.

The man had been waiting outside his chamber as Jon was departing it, his things in hand.

He couldn’t remember a single more conniving man that he’d ever met in his life.

“Hello again, Ser Jon,” came Littlefinger’s oily voice. “I came to commend your bravery earlier this afternoon.” Jon tried hard not to snort as Baelish continued: “The princess is lucky to have such a skilled defender.”

“And you waited outside my room to tell me that?” he asked skeptically.

Petyr Baelish was better than Jon had given him credit for in their first meeting; he didn’t even blink. “I found it prudent not to say anything positive considering the mood his grace was in.”

That was… reasonable, Jon supposed.

“Aye, well, I’m meant to be moving my things, so if that’s all, thank you, Lord Baelish.” Jon moved to leave; and somehow, he’d known what was coming:

“Actually, Ser Jon,” Littlefinger called out, “there is another matter I’d like to speak with you about. But not here.”

Jon turned slowly and eyed him. His face revealed nothing, but there was a dangerous gleam in the depths of his eyes. “What’s that?”

“It has to do with your sister, Lady Sansa.”

He could feel his heart-rate increase. Blood pounded in his ears. “And what of my sister?”

Baelish’s mouth turned up the slightest corner, and Jon realized he’d been baited.

“Not here. We’ll speak again soon. In a palace, there's always someone watching.” 

And then the man strode away without a look back.

Jon turned again and left, mind occupied by Baelish’s words. Sansa wasn’t even in King's Landing; he couldn’t imagine what the man could have to say that would involve her.

And yet, how could he ignore such a missive? His father would surely want him to look after Sansa, too.

Jon ran a hand through his hair, frazzled, as he made his way across the castle.

It almost felt like a joke when he arrived to his new chambers — for his own sake, he tried hard to think of them as ‘his’ and not ‘Daenerys’s.’— and there was Lord Varys, waiting outside the door.

“You know, you’re the third man who’s come to speak with me today,” Jon said blithely.

The Master of Whispers just smiled. “Men who have the ear of the king must suffer many audiences, I’m afraid.”

Jon felt confused. “I don’t have the king’s ear. I’ve barely ever spoken to him.”

Varys arched a brow at him. “The princess’s ear, then. And she has his. Why, even Prince Viserys knows that.”

Whenever Varys spoke, Jon was overcome by the feeling that he was being mocked.

“Do you have something you want to say, Lord Varys?” he asked. “I mean no offense; but I’ve had a long day, and I’d like to rest.”

The bald man cocked his head at him, sharp eyes piercing his skin.

“Be careful what company you keep, Ser Jon,” he said in his high voice. “There’s always someone watching.”

***

When Jon finally stepped out of the bath, he felt healthier. Scrubbing the grime and mess of the day from his skin had felt like waking from a long nap.

He threw some lighter clothing on and stared around him again at the room he’d been assigned to. Ornate walls, a large fireplace. A soft featherbed. 

Large windows. Right now, with the curtains wide, he could see the inky black sky, and the city beyond it. There were so many lights in King's Landing. As many, it felt like, as there were stars in the North.

He looked around the room again, eyes falling on his two doors. Behind one was a hallway entrance. Behind the other, Daenerys Targaryen.

As though he had summoned her through his thoughts, a dim knock came from the door that joined their spaces.

Jon crossed the room in just a few strides and wrenched the wooden slab open. 

He had to restrain himself from physically jolting at the sight before him: Daenerys in a nightgown and robe. Her hair was loose and hung in curls down to the bottoms of her breasts.

The robe was tied loosely, the knot coming undone. What little effort it would take to tug on it, watch it unfurl and see the robe fall open...

Jon tried as hard as he could to push the detail from his mind, focusing on her moonlight hair instead. It wasn’t helpful.

She smiled at him hesitantly, cheeks pink.

“I brought wine,” she said, lifting a bottle. “May I come in?”

Surely it was not healthy for his heart to pound so hard? For his body to be this electrified?

And all that aside, the king would probably have him run through if he found Daenerys in her bastard instructor’s chambers, drinking in her nightgown. Hells, his own uncle may be the one to do it.

But still… the princess had come to him — she’d asked for his company, not demanded it. And she’d come through this door, so her guards wouldn’t know.

Who would he be to turn her away? 

_And_ , a small voice whispered in his mind, _who_ _was he to pretend he was strong enough to?_

Jon stood aside and allowed her into his room, more nervous than he’d been in memory.

The moment she had fully crossed the threshold, he clicked the door shut.

Alone. They were alone in his room.

He had never been completely alone with Daenerys before.

There were always eyes on them; there was always someone watching.

The thought seemed to have crossed her mind as well. The princess turned to him, and her face was still flushed.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “I thought I might desire some company this evening; and then I remembered I have a new neighbor.” 

Her plush lips were pulled up in a tiny smile. The light from his fireplace made her look golden.

She looked ethereal. Like the stories said true royalty was supposed to — whenever Rhaegar Targaryen saw fit to actually dismiss him, Jon knew he’d remember this vision of her.

The silence stretched on, but he didn’t know what to say.

“Are you comfortable,” he started weakly. “The — er, the temperature?”

She nodded slowly and looked around the room. It was far larger than the one he’d previously occupied, far more ornate. His things looked rather sad in the corner he’d shoved them into.

Not for the first time, Jon wondered where the handmaid he’d displaced was now sleeping.

“May I?” she asked, gesturing toward a small table and two chairs that lay near the fireplace.

He nodded. After a few more stammered exchanges, they were seated. Jon was relieved he’d at least managed enough manners to pour her glass for her.

 _Gods_ , they hadn’t been this awkward together since their first conversations.

“How do you like your new chambers?” she asked abruptly, averting her eyes to look anywhere but toward him. “Are they to your taste?”

“Aye,” he replied. They both fell silent.

Jon knew he needed to improve the atmosphere immediately, before she fled the room and asked herself what she’d ever thought by coming here. 

“It’s bigger than what I’m used to,” he joked. “And I’ve never had a royal neighbor before.”

He quirked a small smile, and some of the tension receded from her eyes.

“You’ve moved up in the world, Jon Snow,” she said with a small smirk.

Whenever Daenerys said his name, _his full name_ , she managed a mighty task: For just a moment, he forgot to hate it.

“I hope your handmaiden wasn’t put anywhere uncomfortable,” he said. “I don’t feel great about kicking her out of here.”

She shook her head gently. “Don’t worry; she’s just been moved a hallway away.” Daenerys paused for a moment and then straightened up, steeling herself. “I wanted to say thank you again for pulling me out of there… and for tolerating my behavior earlier.”

Jon had never heard any thanks he needed less. He supposed it would be reductive to tell her that a princess holding his arm wasn’t a chore, but still.

“It’s fine,” he said, voice low. “Nothin’ wrong with your behavior anyway.”

She looked sheepish, and he lost himself for a moment just watching her. When she spoke, her voice was self-deprecating.

“I beg to differ,” she said. “I was quite hysterical by the time we returned, and you were so calm from start to finish.”

That wasn’t true; he had been frightened enough to drown in it. He had been _consumed_ by it.

“I was terrified,” he admitted, “that you were hurt. When you screamed, I had no idea what I would see when I turned.”

Daenerys appraised him for a moment, surprised. “You didn’t seem terrified. You seemed… unstoppable,” she finished.

He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, her praise unmooring him. 

“Trust me, Daenerys,” he said with a chuckle. “I’m not. And you were brave. I’ve met men who would’ve pissed themselves in your shoes.”

“I was thinking about it afterwards, when we got back,” she said, a distant look in her eyes. “About what made me freeze. About what made me so afraid.”

She seemed lost in her thoughts; if he didn’t know better, he’d believe her mind was thousands of miles away.

“Rhaegar lost everyone he’s ever loved but my brother and me,” she said. “Tyrion said it to me ages ago, but I didn’t want to believe him. But it’s true, if Viserys or I were to die, it would destroy him.”

Jon’s chest felt tight; he was sure if Robb were here, he’d tell him that he was brooding once again. “Guilt shouldn’t be all that keeps you going, Daenerys,” Jon said. “You deserve to feel safe. And happy.”

“Well, I suppose I’d prefer to live,” she said with a low laugh. “If I can.”

 _‘You will,’_ he thought. He would do whatever was necessary to make sure of that. 

Daenerys smiled at him then — a brilliant grin — and he wondered if his thoughts had been written clear on his face.

They’d finished their glasses by now, and she made a procedure of refilling them before speaking again.

“Rhaegar has always provided for me. Everything I’ve ever wanted in my life, I’ve had. Except my mother,” she said. A log crackled in the flames beside them.

Jon started as the topic shifted so suddenly.

She rolled her palm over and lifted her hand so he could see the delicate ring on her finger. 

“This was her ring. We’ve got very few of her belongings left now. Some of her gowns, her tiara. And this ring. I’m a princess, and I was given everything I ever wanted. But I could never get my mother back.”

Her hair curtained forward as she leaned closer to him, her voice fervent. “I was so ashamed when I became old enough to understand why she wasn’t here. All I’d done was needle my brother. He gave up everything for Viserys and me, and I complained about the one thing no one could provide. Everyone always tells us all the good things. All our talents. Our beauty. Our intelligence. No one tells my brothers and me our flaws. But I don’t deserve more than anyone else; I’m very selfish.”

Up close, her eyes were flecked. He could see shards of different colors inside the purple of her irises. It suddenly felt hard to swallow.

“I don’t think that’s selfish,” he said, voice strangled. “I know what it’s like... to want to know your mother…”

Daenerys’s spine straightened as she jerked up, mortified. “Forgive me,” she stuttered, red-faced. “That was — I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean it like that. Of course, Lady Dayne. You see,” she exclaimed, “I’ve no tact at all!” 

“You don’t need to apologize,” he mumbled back. “I just… when I was young, I wondered — if she’d survived giving birth to me — if she would have wanted to know me or if I would have been a burden.”

Jon had _never_ voiced the fear in his heart before, that if his mother had lived, he would have ruined her life. He wasn’t sure he could handle the look of immense sorrow on the princess’s face.

“Ah, don’t give me that look,” he said. “I’m luckier than most bastards are. My lord father raised me alongside his trueborn children, and my aunt and uncle both made themselves known to me.”

The wine might have loosened his tongue, or maybe it was just Daenerys who disarmed him.

She grabbed his hand delicately; her skin was soft.

“I’m sure she’d be proud of you,” she said softly. “You’re a good man.”

Her hand was still on top of his. He could see the delicate gems on her mother’s ring gleaming in the warm light.

Daenerys looked tense, as if she were nervous for her next words.

“I didn’t thank you properly,” she began, “for saving my life. I put us in harm’s way; and if not for you, I’d probably be dead.”

 _Not this again_.

She seemed to underestimate how vital she’d been in their escape. Ser Kevan, the gods rest him, had been killed so quickly. So quietly.

Had Daenerys not shouted, had she not been able to remove herself from the first man’s grip… Jon could envision the entire battle — it was a useful, dreadful skill. He could picture every movement he’d made.

If he turned around and she was still standing between his blade and the sellsword, Jon was quite certain everything that followed would’ve gone significantly worse. 

“Daenerys, I —” he started.

She held her hand up to quiet him. He mourned the loss of her warmth.

“Please,” she said, “tell me what reward you want, and I will see that it’s granted.”

“I don’t need anything,” he insisted.

She tilted her head, lips pursing a bit. “I didn’t ask what you _need_ ; I asked what you _want_.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Fine, I don’t _want_ anything, then.”

Her skin looked dewy and bright. “Are you determined not to allow me to thank you?” she huffed. “I’m here right now because of you, Jon.”

He wasn’t sure how to explain why accepting a gift from her felt so wrong. It made it so transactional. As if he’d done her a service for payment.

“I didn’t do it so you’d reward me, Daenerys,” he replied. “And you’re here because of you.”

She seemed to be holding herself back from saying something; she had tugged her own bottom lip between her teeth, swallowing back her words.

“You wanted to be a knight,” she finally said. “That’s why my brother knighted you, isn’t it? Wasn’t there anything else you wanted when you were young?” 

At his silence, she pressed on: “Anything else that Jon Snow dreamed of?”

There was only one thing he’d ever dreamed of as a child: being Jon Stark.

But his father’s lady wife would sooner see him dead than legitimate. Lady Catelyn had never forgiven him for looking more like a Stark than her own trueborn children.

 _‘There’s still the Kingsguard_ ,’ he supposed. But no, there were seven of them already. And besides…

No. He pushed that thought away.

But Daenerys looked so put out that even as he shook his head, he found himself desperate to come up with some meaningless thing he could accept.

It came to him in a burst and left him within moments, without a thought — without consideration.

“Actually, Daenerys,” he said. “There is one thing. It’s not really a gift; it’s more of a question…” His face felt hot. Why had he begun this sentence at all? He couldn’t stop now that he could so plainly see the relief filling her eyes.

“Yes?” she asked. The weight of her gaze shook him for reasons entirely unrelated to what he was about to say.

“Lord Varys made a strange comment to me about you… about fire,” he said. “If it’s not too private… I’ve wondered what he meant.”

Oddly, this seemed to make her uncomfortable again. “And what did Lord Varys say?” she asked darkly.

“Nothing that made any sense,” he replied. “Just that fire was more interesting than what languages you speak.”

Jon could feel the heat rising in the back of his neck. Daenerys had her head cocked as she stared at him; he wished he hadn’t asked at all.

“I need you to promise not to shout,” she said finally.

_...What?_

His face must’ve made his confusion plain, because she reiterated her words. 

“Jon, I can’t be caught in here if the guards come running. You need to promise me you won’t shout.”

“Aye,” he said quietly, wondering what in the hells was going on. 

And then Daenerys leaned down and stuck her hand clear into the flames of his fireplace.

His breath caught in his chest as she put her other finger to her lips, shushing him. She flipped the limb inside the flames once… twice… and then pulled it out.

Unscathed.

_Unburnt._

Jon reeled back, stunned. Her skin was bathed in firelight as she stared at him nervously.

“Are all three of you —” he breathed out, unable to finish.

Daenerys shook her head, biting her lip. “No. Viserys pulled me out of the flames once when we were young, after he saw me playing. He thought he was saving me. He still has a burn mark on his arm. After that, Rhaegar forbid us from telling anyone. I’m not sure how Lord Varys found out; he always seems to know things that he shouldn’t.”

There was little he could say to that. This time, he took her hand again unthinkingly. He ran a finger over her smooth skin. It was warm.

All he managed to mumble out was a promise to keep her secret.

“I know you will,” she said, a smile pulling up her lips. “I trust you.”

His chest ached. What a fool he was, to fall in love with a woman he would never have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always - feel free to drop me a line here or on Tumblr if you've got any feedback/questions/you're bored. <3


	7. DAENERYS III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is there to say but that life is busy, and writing is hard. I wanted to get this done/posted much sooner, but due to an influx of life things, birthdays, work and literal exhaustion, this is the best I could manage. 
> 
> This chapter is a bit of a character study, in a way. There's a lot happening in Dany's brain.
> 
> Anyway, thanks to everyone who has remained supportive and nice to me while you waited <3\. Without further ado:

****

* * *

**"I have to be seen to be believed."**

_-Queen Elizabeth II_

* * *

**DANY.**

* * *

Despite all odds, Daenerys slept soundly.

It seemed that Jon’s proximity had done what she would've believed impossible: It allowed her some measure of calm.

Her spine didn't freeze at every last sound. She hadn’t needed to press her face into her furs. No cold terror filled her lungs when shadows flickered on the walls of her chamber.  She had not replayed Ser Kevan’s death on endless loop in her mind until her eyes were bloodshot and her skin wan.

From a room away, Jon wasn't really close enough to stop any determined man who managed to make his way into hers. But if the traitor was as near to them as it appeared they were, they would know that sending someone to her chambers had become a far riskier endeavor.

Still, Daenerys knew it wasn't the proximity of a talented swordsman that had settled her; it felt rather specifically like it was the identity of the man. In less than one full day, her view of Jon had irrevocably transformed into something beyond his role as an instructor — as a protector, even.

Before the attack, she’d found him comely and talented, if a bit moody. His physical appeal lodged itself inside her in a passive way, like she was a spectator watching a particularly fine lord compete in a tourney.

Now, it was as if a rope inside her had snapped. She could no longer stand to look at him without wanting to reach for him. Seeing Jon cut through men _for her_ was something else entirely. The knowledge that he was trustworthy — and the sight of his face, raw with emotion... no one had ever looked at her like that before.

Never once in her life.

A memory surfaced for its thousandth time in her mind: the warmth she’d felt when he held her as they rode toward the palace.

Ensconced in his chambers the night before, she had been met with another foreign feeling — one that was harder to explain. 

It wasn’t safety.  It had been a very long time since she had felt anything like the word ‘safe.’  But it had been longer still since she’d felt like someone saw the real her — Daenerys, an individual — instead of a princess. 

She thought that maybe _Jon_ did.

It was intoxicating. She hadn’t been able to stop herself from grabbing his hand. She wanted to feel that warmth again.

He was so… good. 

So kind. 

All he seemed to want was for her to be safe.

She had grown to feel the same way about him — Jon and all the others risking their lives to shield her. It made her desperate to solve whatever puzzle she was missing. 

It was that feeling that drove her to crawl from her featherbed at dawn. She took to her settee with her books and her notes just before the sun crept over the horizon, trying in vain to draw some connection.

Over and over, she flicked through the pages, tension mounting inside her skull.

Every option seemed impossible. Not one of her suspects seemed capable of pulling this off on their own, as best she could tell. (And she had included every possible suspect that she could think of. Even ones that made her chest ache.)

She stared down at her notes again.

**_Tywin Lannister_ ** _\- Has enough gold to purchase sellswords. Spends most of his time at Casterly Rock; would need an accomplice at the Red Keep or Flea Bottom attack is impossible._

Maybe. But why? What else did he have to gain that being Hand of the King did not provide him? She supposed he could still be angry about her brother’s rejection of Cersei, but gods… what an old conflict to inspire such behavior.

**_Tyrion Lannister_ ** _\- Helping his father???_

She hadn’t been able to muster much enthusiasm for this theory. Tyrion held no love for his father, and he was well aware that she’d pushed for his promotion to de facto Hand. But still.

**_The Martells_ ** _\- Mad at Rhaegar still over Elia? Would probably have to be authorized by Prince Doran directly. A big gamble. Same problem as Tywin — they aren’t here._

Somehow, this seemed even less sensible. Rhaegar had done his best to make amends with the Martells after Elia’s execution. And they seemed to have forgiven him — hells, they even let Lyanna Stark live inside Dorne’s borders.

**_Varys_ ** _\- Has enough connections to Essos to hire sellswords but unclear motives._

It would be easier to discount Lord Varys if she trusted him at all. Once upon a time, Daenerys had. But Jon’s words had shaken her. He knew her secret. He knew, and he’d implied it to Jon. What other mysteries did the Master of Whispers traffic in?

**_Petyr Baelish_ ** _\- Social climbing? Helps deal with crown’s finances, maybe able to siphon enough money to hire sellswords, but unclear how getting rid of me would help him rise in the ranks._

Baelish was another one who raised more questions than he answered. Her general impression of the man was that he seemed desperate to ingratiate himself with her brothers. She couldn’t fathom was her abduction would do to aid that prospect. Hells, if anything, her disappearance would probably hinder him. Rhaegar would not be amenable to political overtures from a near-stranger with his sister missing.

**_Pycelle_ ** _\- The Citadel isn’t a fan of my family, and he could want us gone. But Pycelle is a maester, not likely enough coin personally unless whole order involved._

Daenerys didn’t want to begin thinking of what it would mean if the entire Citadel was involved in a plot against her family. The Targaryens were a dynasty, but war with an order such as theirs would be mightily dangerous. They still held sway over plenty of smallfolk. 

**_Rhaegar / Viserys_ ** _\- They know where I will be at all times and how my security works. But they are my brothers, and they have both been working to increase my security._

Adding her siblings had been painful. Brutal, even. Rhaegar and Viserys were the only family she had left in the world. But still... anyone in the Red Keep with enough clout to see these attacks through could not be excluded.

The one abstention Daenerys made was Jon; she hadn’t bothered putting her instructor on the list. Try as she might, she couldn’t come up with a reasonable way in which he could be allied with her attackers. He hadn’t been involved in her life in any capacity until weeks after she’d escaped that basement in Rosby.

But his exclusion was a double-edged sword. While it was nice to reaffirm her faith in a man she’d quickly grown to trust, it also cemented his place on an ever-shrinking list. He had joined the narrow ranks of people she felt unequipped to lose.

The terror she had felt when one of the sellswords in Flea Bottom nearly sliced Jon open was still visceral. That same feeling — of helplessness, of horror — had not yet left her. It merely retreated, burrowing just beneath the surface of her skin. E ven the faintest shadow of its memory was enough to exhume it. 

Already she’d lost a handmaiden and two guards. She could not bear the thought of any others suffering because of her.  The fear that filled her was overwhelming.

Fear and guilt.

Jon did not need to be here, putting himself in mortal peril for her. But the idea of him leaving was searing; her entire body was repulsed by it.

Daenerys imagined his dark hair for a moment, his purple Dayne eyes. They were only a bit darker than her own. She could envision them clearly, trained on her the night before as she thrusted her hand into the fireplace.

It was a strange feeling, to have shared something with him that so few others knew. She could count on one hand the number of living people who had seen the flames lick her skin without burning.

But it had been inexplicably easy to tell him. What did it truly matter how long she had known him for? He had saved her, hadn’t he? If he wasn’t a trustworthy man, surely he would have let their attackers have her.

And it had been the only thing he seemed willing to ask for. Any other man, she knew, would have been more than willing to accept a gift from her. But Jon was a fascinating creature. 

Whatever gods existed could smite her; but inside the privacy of her own mind, Daenerys knew that her offer had been tinged with the same undercurrent that had filled her voice as he brought her back to the palace. 

Of course, Jon was a stoic man. He had not asked her for anything, never mind anything like _that._ In truth, she wasn’t sure that she had expected him to. Humble as he was, he would probably never think to ask for such a reward. And that was the best-case scenario.

Worst-case, he might not be at all interested. Daenerys knew what it was that Jon actually wanted; Rhaegar told her the day he first told her what her instructor’s name was. 

The Kingsguard.

If she were a better woman, she could have offered it to him without making him ask. She knew him well enough by now to know that he would probably not feel comfortable requesting it himself. But she hadn’t been able to muster herself to suggest it... the words had died in her throat.  A man like Jon was not meant to follow around her brothers for the rest of his days. 

And selfishly, in the silent safety of her own mind, Daenerys did not think she could stand it if she were the one to help him swear away women. 

Not when all she could think of when she looked at him was the way it felt to be enveloped in his arms.

As she sat in front of him in his chambers the night before, she had been certain that he must have felt the energy flowing so freely between them. It seemed almost impossible that any man wouldn’t have felt it.

_'Surely he must have,'_ she reassured herself. The look in his eyes as she pulled her hand from the flames had been nothing short of breathtaking.  Jon had stared at her like she was crafted by the gods. Hells, he looked at her like she was one of the gods themselves.

It stirred something inside her that she had never felt before. Since then, she hadn't been able to stop.

She needed to focus; there was not much to be gained by daydreaming about Ser Jon Snow’s lips.

***

By the time the afternoon rolled around, Daenerys had made note of the fact that she hadn't seen Tyrion once. 

Now she knew why.

At the far end of the hall, Tywin Lannister was walking with Lord Varys. Seeing him inside the palace was jarring; she hadn’t known to expect the Lannister patriarch, and he looked as imposing as ever.

Every time his father came to King’s Landing, Tyrion made himself scarce. She couldn’t blame him for such endeavors. Tywin Lannister was colder than a man seemed to have the right to be. 

And calculating. 

And ruthless. 

Daenerys was under no illusions regarding his fealty to her family — or lack thereof. She was certain that the moment it became advantageous to betray the Targaryens, he would do it.

It didn't help that she was fairly certain Tywin knew she was responsible for Tyrion’s ascendence. Each time he laid eyes on her since Rhaegar had informed him of the decision, the Lannister patriarch’s lip curled with distaste. 

She had quickly become adept at ducking him on his rare visits to the capital, but it was too late now for her to turn and take a different route.

Instead, she lifted her head and straightened her shoulders, steeling herself to face him.

“Your highness,” he said as she approached. His head was inclined, but his face was tight.

She nodded back toward him. “Lord Hand,” she replied. “Welcome back to King’s Landing.”

His eyes were so cold. Pale green, but not like springtime or moss. But for their color, they were like ice: hard and unyielding.

“Lord Varys has just been informing me about the most recent attack on you. How fortunate that Jon Snow was there to save you,” he said. His words sent a foreboding chill down her back; she didn't like the sound of Jon's name coming from him.

“It was fortunate,” she replied, keeping her voice steady. _“Ser_ Jon is very capable with a sword. He is often compared to his uncle, Ser Arthur.”

She could see it clearly now that she was looking: Tywin's derision.

"Fortunate, indeed," he said drily. "But I suppose His Grace's decision to summon him has been vindicated."

Cold eyes. _Sharp eyes._

Usually, Tywin frightened her. Not today.

***

Jon was behaving strangely; that was the only way to describe it. 

She entered the courtyard for their lesson a few minutes earlier than scheduled, trouser-clad and with her hair in what were rapidly becoming her standard braids.

He had arrived with wooden practice swords, and she felt jittery. Jon had not suggested working with a sword again since her disastrous first lesson.

But she was distracted from her nerves in rather short order. Jon was being odd; he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

She swallowed hard, unwilling to confront the sour feeling in her stomach.

“You’re doing well with the dagger," he mumbled, "and we’ll keep working with that, but I thought it might be a good idea to see how you are with the sword again now that you’re a bit stronger.”

“Alright,” she replied uncomfortably.

It was undoubtedly easier to lift the sword now than it had been that first day, but she was still having trouble swinging it. Her grip was awkward; the pommel felt too small for the weight of the blade.

And still Jon was recalcitrant. Where he would normally adjust her arm or grip her elbow to straighten it, he seemed hesitant to touch her at all. Skittish, even.

It bothered her more than she cared to admit. How many times had Daenerys imagined the feeling of his warm palms splayed on her skin over the course of the last 24 hours? More times than she should have, to be certain. 

But Jon seemed determined not to oblige her.  She was so frustrated by his sudden withdrawal that her mistakes were genuine. Try as she might, she couldn’t follow what he was saying about her grip.

By the third time in 15 minutes that Jon tried explaining how to bend her arm into the right position (without actually showing her), she lost her patience.

Daenerys dropped her arms and eyed him directly. “Surely it would be easier to just adjust me into the correct stance,” she said, voice sharper than she planned. He winced at her tone. 

For a moment, the two of them held a silent face-off, and then he swallowed, resigned. “Aye,” he said.

Jon stepped behind her, and her entire spine shivered. It would be a wonder if he didn't feel it; the feel of his body so close to hers seemed to ignite her very blood. She was certain she felt more heat from him than she would from an inferno. 

Daenerys wondered when she had become so wanton. _‘It was him,’_ she thought. _‘It was all because of him.’_

He placed his hands on her hips softly and turned them, so that her weight was heavier on her back leg. His touch was a whisper, lighter than air. 

Then he moved his right hand toward her upper back and twisted her forward, so that her shoulders were facing straight ahead. She relished the feeling of his hand on her body; it was strange to think she’d gone so many, many moons without knowing him at all. 

The feeling of his hand was like a flagon of Dornish wine to a drunk. If she wasn’t mistaken, she thought she could feel a slight tremor in his own palm. It had only been one day, after a lifetime of nothingness. But still, it was intoxicating.

All too soon, he stepped back, and a chill replaced him. The only warmth left was the scorching trail his hand had left on her skin, but it was like an ember in a rain shower: Too fleeting, too weak to weather the storm.

Jon made her greedy. She wanted to command him to touch her again.  Instead, she tightened the grip on her practice sword’s blade. 

This time, she swung straight.

“That’s much better,” he said from behind her. She turned to face him, and their eyes finally met. His were soft and pleased.

“Perhaps you should touch me more often,” she let out before she could stop herself. 

She flushed at her own flirtation, but Jon’s cheeks turned suspiciously pink, too. His eyes had widened. 

He seemed so pleasantly surprised by her reckless words that she found she couldn’t make herself care.

***

Tyrion would only make himself known while Tywin was in town for a serious reason. She should have known that.

But Daenerys had been on a high since the end of her lesson, soaked in sweat but with Jon’s smile — _Gods, that smile —_ fresh in her mind.

They were walking together still back toward their rooms when she saw the dwarf posted outside her chambers, lips pursed.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” she said as she approached the rooms.

He nodded tightly at Jon and her, seeming unwilling to speak.

“Princess,” he began, eyes flitting to the man beside her once more. “If I could speak with you privately.”

“Regarding?” she asked.

Tyrion’s voice was softer when he replied: “Updates.”

She could feel her instructor — guard — or whatever he was tense next to her. Her own spine was rigid like steel. She knew what that meant: something else had happened.

“Very well,” she replied. Jon shot a look toward her that was equal parts wounded and miserable.

But this was not Jon’s fight, even if he wanted it to be. She turned to face him and lifted her chin. “Thank you, Ser. I will see you later on.”

He swallowed and nodded. “Aye. Your highness. Lord Hand.” 

And then he stalked over to the door at their left, disappearing from sight.

Daenerys and Tyrion did the same, crossing into her chambers and out of the drafty, candlelit hall. She did not bother with pleasantries, crossing to a chair and dropping herself into it, still in her lesson garb.

"As you know, we have increased patrols around the palace grounds," he started.

She nodded, suspicion growing in her mind as to what the man would say.

“Last night, there was a disturbance reported among the newer guards stationed near your part of the castle. One was knocked out by what he described only as a masked stranger. The other guards found him quickly, but whoever it was has escaped.”

Her eyes narrowed as a flare of anger ripped through her.

It was frustrating beyond reason that over and over again, her attackers seemed to be so many steps ahead of them.

_‘Enough of this,’_ she thought furiously. There was something she didn't understand, something being kept from her. Daenerys had no patience left for it.  If she was going to be pursued relentlessly, she would have answers.

***

It took her almost no time at all to find the king; he was in the very first location that she checked: His own chambers. She shuffled by his Kingsguard, gaze meeting anywhere but Ser Arthur's face.

Her brother was alone when she entered, staring aimlessly into the flames of his solar's fireplace.

"Rhaegar," she said once it became clear that he would not break the silence.

“I’ll have to find a replacement for Ser Kevan in the guards,” he finally mused by way of greeting.

“Rhaegar,” she said again. This time, she was firm. Her brother turned to face her, and the shadows beneath his eyes were dark.

“Ask me what you came to ask, Dany.”

She steeled herself and faced him, chin up and spine straight. She was a dragon. She must always remember that.

“There have been no attacks on you or Viserys,” she said. “There have been no attempts on any member of the Small Council or on others who they associate with. Why are they after me?”

But he didn't answer her at all. Instead, he asked her a question:  “Who would you want to marry?”

If she had been holding anything, Daenerys was sure she’d have dropped it.

“I… what?” she replied. “What do you mean?”

He turned back to face the fires again; he looked troubled.

“I made a great deal of houses angry when I refused to take another wife," he said. "Viserys has no interest in whether his choice of a bride is the best decision for the kingdoms or not. Why should you not have the same courtesy as us? Why should you be the only one expected to comply with duty? Who would you want to marry, if you could choose?”

She swallowed hard, stomach churning. The reality was that she had never really considered the question. Even after hearing her brothers discuss her betrothal options, she’d never considered choice to be an option. The realization shocked her.

“I...” she started. Broad shoulders and purple eyes came to mind, but she shoved them away regretfully. 

Somehow, she was certain that ‘Jon Snow’ was not the answer her brother was looking for.

“I’m not sure,” she said instead. “I would need to consider my options.”

Rhaegar nodded, as if her words had meant something. As if they hadn’t been thoughtless grasping.  Her brother was quiet, face reflected by the firelight. 

The last dragon and his fiercest weapon. But he didn't look fierce at all right then. An odd feeling bubbled inside her.

When he broke his silence, it was the last thing she expected.

“For so many nights now, I have stared into the fire and felt the same, single thought take hold of me," he said. "It has been far too long since the last time I was able to look upon Lyanna Stark’s face.”

Her mind was filled with static; her blood was rushing in her ears.

"Will you send for her, then?" she asked finally. But she knew the answer; _she knew._

Rhaegar shook his head slowly, waiting. He had always thought of her mind as her sharpest asset, more so even than her beauty. Normally, that flattered her; but right now, she wished he would take pity on her and explain himself.

Daenerys stumbled over her words as she tried to make sense of it. “Are you — you’re going to leave King’s Landing?”

“I would go nowhere until your safety is assured,” he said. “Until whoever is behind the attacks on you is captured.”

If she had a mirror then, she was sure that a ghost would have been reflected back at her.

"I don't — how long would you be gone for?" she finally managed.

Rhaegar walked over to her and pulled her to a small settee. They sat together, her in a daze.  Her brother looked troubled and solemn as he searched her face. For a moment, he was silent. 

“Did you ever wish you were born before Viserys, when you were little?” he asked. “Did you ever wish that you would grow up to be queen?” 

His words felt as if they came from the bottom of some deep well, echoing in her mind, distorting themselves.

He pulled the golden crown from his head and held it like it was something dirty. “I have never stopped loving Lyanna. Each morning, I think of her. At night, when I close my eyes, I dream about her. And she loves me still, too." He pulled a small scroll from his pocket, the parchment worn and smudged. The only visible words were a signature at the bottom.

"Then send for her," she said again, voice wild. "You're the _king;_ she'll come if you ask her to."

But Rhaegar simply shook his head again. "The only thing she never wanted was this crown, and I find that I’ve grown tired of it, too.”

She couldn’t hear. She couldn't see. She _knew,_ but she couldn't think. “Brother —” she started.

But Rhaegar was undeterred. “I’m going to abdicate the throne, Daenerys. In your favor, if you want it.”

Time stopped. The air fled her lungs. 

“Viserys is older,” she finally managed. “He’s older than me.”

Her brother looked at her, and this time, there was no mistaking the distress on his face. He looked as though he’d been wrecked.

“He is, but he behaves as if he is still a boy instead of a man grown,” he said. “I’ve wished for many years that Viserys would come to his senses. He refuses. We have fought so many times, but still he refuses to understand that being a king is not about ruling your people; it’s about serving them. You are a better choice for Westeros, Dany… but you need not decide today.”

He laid the golden crown on her lap and stood, gently leaning over to kiss her on the forehead. 

“I would go nowhere until your attackers are caught and punished,” he said. “In the meantime, all I ask is that you think on it.”

She nodded absently as her brother crossed over into his inner chamber. The flames in the fireplace danced before her.

‘Queen,’ she thought.

She stared down at the gleaming gold circlet; its weight was astonishing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	8. JON IV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. I've been here before lol. Sorry for the long wait on this chapter. Secret Santa fic + family vacation + my dad getting abruptly ill, going to the hospital and having surgery have taken their toll. As does real life, frankly. (PS - my dad is now doing great!!!)
> 
> Big shout-out to my phenom of a beta, Sabrina, who encouraged me to finish this and then whipped it into shape. Also a separate author's note at the end. Without further ado, here's chapter 8.

**"Love is a better teacher than duty."  
**

**-** _Albert Einstein_

* * *

**JON.**

* * *

There were so many things Jon would rather think about than Petyr Baelish. Almost anything, in fact. 

And yet, that was just how he’d ended up: contemplating the devious man and his inscrutable motives from the warmth of his bedchamber. It felt like a futile effort — Jon was a fighter, not accustomed to dealing with the slippery sort of men who ambled around at court.

But he had no choice. It was guilt that kept him focused now. 

Daenerys had occupied his thoughts nearly full-time since he’d moved into the chambers next door to her. Between her self-defense lessons and their fireside chat, he’d had little room left in his mind for anything other than the silver-haired princess. She had distracted him so completely that he’d forgotten Baelish’s veiled comments outside his old chambers. 

Littlefinger wanted to speak with him. 

_‘It has to do with your sister, Lady Sansa.’_

The realization that Sansa had slipped his mind made him feel like a piss-poor brother. And worse than that, it made him feel as if Lady Catelyn had been right about him all along. He was a greedy and inconsiderate man. Self-centered. Jon tried desperately to avoid imagining the disappointment that would inhabit his father’s eyes if he only knew.

Sansa was his sister; her safety should be his priority. He’d sent her a raven — language casual — inquiring after her, but even if she wrote back immediately, it was hard to predict when he should expect a response. 

Jon had resigned himself to sitting and theorizing until then; but try as he might, he couldn’t picture what Littlefinger might say. Surely if Sansa was in danger, someone would have informed him by now… And if nothing had happened to her yet, then the situation was even more muddled.

If someone had threatened her, Jon wasn’t sure how Baelish would know of it. And it was a difficult thing to ask; Jon had no friendly relationship with the man — if anything, the two of them clashed prolifically. He could just picture Littlefinger’s malicious sneer — could almost hear the faux-casual surprise in his voice.

 _‘Why, Ser Jon,’_ he’d exclaim, _‘Surely you understand that I can’t just reveal my sources to mere strangers.’_

Jon was quite certain that he had no interest in hearing Littlefinger's litany of bullshit.

And that was how he had ended up staring into the crackling logs in his fireplace, mind running wild.

He sat there so long that he didn’t notice when he fell asleep in his seat. Not until the sun rose from beneath the horizon, and his drowsy form stirred. Every muscle ached; he could feel an uncomfortable kink in his neck.

Pulling himself from his makeshift bed was difficult, and Jon already regretted not sleeping longer.

He had lessons with Daenerys that morning, which were certain to be a challenge — and not just because he was mad about her, either.

Since building some upper body strength, she had dramatically improved her performance. The princess was even starting to pick up the sword quite nicely. Granted, she wouldn’t stand up well for long against even the most average of trained swordsmen, but her coordination was significantly better. With the element of surprise, she might be able to defend herself long enough for help to arrive.

On any other day, it would fill him with pride. But tired as he was, all he could think about was how much he wished that his plans for that day didn’t include sparring.

He slunk from his chamber and toward the direction of the dining hall, stifling a yawn. The sooner he broke his fast, the better. 

His mind was zig-zagging: Sansa. Daenerys. Sansa. Daenerys.

By the time he made it downstairs, it felt like he’d be whiplashed. He settled on the princess, shoving down the shame in his throat. Surely his sister could not be in immediate danger if Baelish hadn’t yet come to speak with him. But Daenerys… she _was._

He allowed himself a moment with the memory of her pink cheeks at practice the day before. At the very least, the sight of her would soothe his mind.

***

It didn’t. Practice was disconcerting, and Daenerys was nothing like she’d been the day before.

Last lesson, he’d been the quiet one — stewing in his own misery. Jon had been desperate to close his heart off before he fell any harder for her than he already had.

His efforts had been worthless. She had rejected the distance he put between them. She had all but demanded he adjust her stance, a thing he’d been desperate to avoid. Touching her felt dangerous.

And he’d been right: Even that minimal contact had shattered whatever weak defenses he’d been attempting to build.

And that was before she said _it._

Jon was never sure what to expect from Daenerys, but it surely wasn’t that. He had been stunned by her words — _floored_ by them, if he was being honest.

 _‘Perhaps you should touch me more often,’_ she had said.

Anytime. Ever. As often as she wanted.

Those were dangerous words, the kind that could ruin a man. Already, they’d distracted him. It had only been late into the night, after he had replayed them over and over again, eyes squeezed shut as his mind tried to recreate the exact sound of her voice, one hand traveling shamefully beneath the furs to grasp himself — _no._

He was getting carried away again.

It was only afterward that Jon finally recalled Petyr Baelish’s words about his sister.

But after all of that brooding, all of that angst… Jon couldn’t help but wonder if he’d imagined the entire thing. Because the way Daenerys was behaving today, it seemed hard to believe she had said them at all.

Her mind was clearly not focused on their lesson. She kept staring into space, halving every move she made. Worst of all, she looked depressed.

Her eyes were red-rimmed. Her normally bright face was pale — she had the look of a woman who’d tossed and turned all night. Jon couldn’t imagine what had changed since he’d last seen her. Perhaps the strain of her unsolved attacks was finally catching up to her?

…But no. That didn’t make sense — how long had he been working with her now? It seemed too out-of-character for the woman he’d grown to know. No news had come out in the last 24 hours that could have set her off.

Perhaps he had misread her words — or worse, she’d meant them exactly how he’d taken them, but she now regretted them.

Or maybe it was something more personal. It was possible she’d spoken with her brother. Daenerys was still a princess and was no doubt due to marry some highborn fool. It could be that her brother had selected a match for her.

He wasn’t sure which of those options bothered him most.

Regardless, it was clear now that he’d made a mistake. Jon had wanted to put distance between them for his own sake, but now that she was the one doing it, he craved her attention.

It made him itchy. It crawled beneath his skin. He tried to focus on anger instead — anything he could to avoid the discomfort of that feeling.

That, at least, was easy enough. How many hours had he given to teaching her, and she was barely paying attention to him. She seemed to be in another world.

Her technique was so sloppy today. He couldn’t parse it. Even on her first day of training, having never held a weapon, Daenerys had at least been _trying._

Torn between worry and frustration, his patience was stretched into a thinner thread than usual. The princess broke through it entirely when she missed his cue to begin. He’d lunged forward and she didn't even appear to notice.

“Damn it, Daenerys, pay attention,” he snapped as they reset. She finally met his eyes, stunned. But he broke their gaze before he could back down from his anger, stalking back to his starting position. “Again.”

Jon moved toward her again, practice sword in place.

Daenerys’s cheeks were pink. He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the inviting shade.

He lunged, a simple swing. But not simple enough, it seemed.

The princess knew how to stop this move; she’d already done it a dozen times before. And yet, her sword was in entirely the wrong place. It should’ve been easy to parry him, but she didn’t.

Their practice swords were blunt enough not to cut through skin, but they were heavy and solid. More than capable of bruising. Blocks, more than blades.

The wood collided with her arm, and Daenerys crumpled to the ground as if she’d been thrown. Her practice sword dropped out of her hand, rolling across the courtyard. 

A small, sharp cry burst from her lips. His mind filled with panic.

“Fuck,” he cried out, letting his own sword fall and clatter against the stone. He dropped to the ground beside her, mind a static blur. “Fuck, fuck, Daenerys, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

A thousand thoughts collided in his head: _He needed to help her. Help her now. Was she hurt? How badly? Had he made her bleed? Why hadn’t he stopped himself before making contact?_

Then she burst into tears and threw her arms around his neck, and all the shouting inside his skull ceased. It had been replaced with stunned confusion.

Her face was pressed into his jerkin, and she was shaking. _Sobbing._

Daenerys was speaking so quickly that her words slurred. 

“I’m sorry, Jon,” she cried, “Rhaegar, and then I dreamed it happened again — my brother can’t — _I can’t…”_

It seemed as if a wall had crumbled irreparably, allowing all her suppressed emotions to come forward.

He sat there for a moment, shocked, as if her pain paralyzed him. And then he slowly brought an arm up around her, fingers curling around her shoulder to hold her against him as she cried.

“I’m so afraid, Jon,” she said what seemed like an hour later, when she finally stopped shaking in his arms. “I’m afraid for my brothers, for all the guards in charge of protecting me, for you… every night, when I close my eyes, I dream of being taken again. I’m so tired of waiting for it.”

“That’s not going to happen,” he said sharply. “I won’t let that happen.”

Daenerys looked up at him, purple eyes wet and miserable. “You can’t stop it, you know. You’re so talented — so brave — but it’s meant to happen. You can’t stop it.”

He shook his head belligerently. Her words were terrible; he couldn’t bear them.

“You’re not meant to be attacked, Daenerys. I won’t let you be taken. It was just a dream,” he murmured.

But she just smiled at him weakly, her small hand raising to graze his cheek. 

“You don’t understand,” she said, voice sad. “My dreams come true.”

Jon lifted his own hand up without thinking, cupping her cheek. “Not this one.”

He heard her quick intake of breath, and he realized just how close they were to one another. Her wide eyes were locked on his, and Daenerys’s lips parted.

But then a noise came from behind him, subtle. A pebble, maybe? Kicked across the stone courtyard. But it was enough: The two of them snapped apart as if they’d been caught in some lovers’ tryst. 

Jon turned his neck slowly to see who had witnessed their embrace. And gods, of all the bloody people it could’ve been…

Lord Varys stood with his hands clasped, a sardonic smile in place.

A few small inches away from him, Daenerys’s cheeks quickly turned beet-red. She was embarrassed — and he could imagine why. To be caught by one of the Small Council members, crying outside on the dirt-covered stone and clutched against a bastard’s chest…

It must’ve been humiliating.

But it was just as well; he needed to be more careful. It was easy to forget himself when she was there, touching him willingly, throwing herself into his arms. Telling him he was brave. _So. Bloody. Close._

But the king could tire of the liberties Jon took with his sister at any moment. 

One unfavorable word from the Master of Whispers (or even just a regular guard), and Jon’s time in the Red Keep would be finished. And more than merely fearing for his own life, Jon feared the idea of being sent away from her.

It was foolish to hope he could remain forever, but he couldn’t leave now. Not yet. 

Not while she was still in danger.

Daenerys stood briskly, brushing uselessly at some of the dirt that stained her clothing. Jon rose more slowly, torn between embarrassment, desire and being entirely overwhelmed.

“I apologize, Ser Jon,” she said as he made it to his feet. Her tone was far more formal than the one she typically took with him. “I think it’s best we stop here for today.”

He nodded at her stupidly; he could feel Varys’s eyes still boring a hole into the back of his head.

She left immediately, her silver braid whipping behind her. When she was at last gone from his sight, he turned toward Varys.

The Spider looked far too interested in examining his nails. He looked up and met Jon’s eyes, voice lazy and indulgent. “It is _so very good_ to see the princess has someone to turn to in these trying times.” Varys turned toward the castle, still looking back at Jon. “But do be careful, Ser Jon. I imagine some would not be as pleased to see it as I am.”

And then the Master of Whispers left him in the courtyard much like Daenerys just had. Jon ran his hand over his face. He wondered if the Essosi man would ever stop speaking in vagaries and threats.

***

That evening, he stood in front of her chamber door, hand raised. Jon had decided somewhere around dinner time that he would call on her that night. It felt like a good idea when he came up with it. But standing here now, it felt like this was a stupid idea — a colossally foolish, _idiot_ idea. 

If there was any soul but Daenerys on the other side of that door, he was almost certainly ruined. Jon was an atrocious liar. Bastard though he may be, the Stark honor ran deep in him.

He would have no good answer for why he felt it acceptable to call on the princess alone in her chambers, through a door where her guards would not see him enter.

On the other hand, the following day was their planned time off from training. Six sessions per week, and somehow, they didn’t have one when he needed it most.

Jon did not want to let a full night and day and night again pass without a proper apology for injuring her. Or, truth be told, without checking in on her after her breakdown that morning.

He took one last deep breath to steady himself and then knocked. One quick, sharp rap of his knuckles against the wood. The sound echoed in the quiet room.

It felt as if it were an eternity for the door to open, though it had probably been little more than a few seconds. He heard a quick rustle behind it, and then the door was open, Daenerys fresh-faced and dressed for bed.

His mouth went dry.

Her curls were loose and unbraided already; and with that, her face seemed softer.

“Jon,” she said quietly. She looked surprised to see him.

“Daenerys,” he mumbled. “I hope I didn’t disturb you. I wanted to, well… I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to hurt you at practice; are you alright?”

She tilted her head at him strangely and then slowly stepped away from the door, gesturing him inside. He swallowed hard as he crossed into her chambers, the relief that she hadn’t shut the door in his face at odds with the fluster he felt being in her bedroom once more.

“You didn’t hurt me,” she finally said once he was inside. “Not really anyway. It was more the surprise than an injury. But I was in another world this morning; if anything, I should apologize.”

She was being kind. He was almost certain that if she pulled off the silky robe covering her nightgown that there would be a sizable bruise on her arm.

Not that he should be thinking about her removing her robe at all.

 _No matter how enticing an idea that was_ — no. He shoved the thought away.

“Still,” he said. “I should’ve just called it for the day when I realized you were distracted. I don’t know why I pushed.”

Daenerys looked at him quietly for a moment, those vivid eyes of hers boring into him. Finally, she walked toward him, not stopping, grabbing his arm and dragging him toward her settee.

She tucked her knees beneath her as they sat, and the sight of it was so casual that he nearly forgot to breathe. 

“Were you mad at me?” she asked after a moment. “You seemed to be. I’ve never — you’re normally not…” she trailed off. 

“No,” he said quickly. “I think I wanted to be, but it wasn’t really about you. Just been a frustrating few days, and I didn’t sleep well.”

“Why?” 

Daenerys’s eyes were narrowed as she scanned his face, though what she was searching for, he couldn’t say. Jon wasn’t sure if telling her was the best idea. If she didn’t believe him, this could be a terrible mistake. And yet, for reasons he couldn't quite define, he didn’t think she would disregard his words.

“It’s Littlefinger,” he admitted slowly. “I mean, er — Petyr Baelish. Sorry. Habit.” He scratched the back of his head, embarrassed.

Her face was stoic.

“What about him?” she asked tightly. “What has he said to you?” 

Her eyes crackled like they were forged from flames. Jon thought of her hand running through the fireplace — perhaps they were. He was struck again by how regal she seemed.

How much of it was nurture, and how much of it was simply her? Jon wasn’t sure.

“He came to my chamber, my old chamber, that is. The night that the king moved me to this room. He said something about my sister, Sansa. Wouldn’t tell me what — just that he needed to talk to me and it involved her. But it didn’t sound like anythin’ good. I haven’t seen him again yet, but I guess it’s got me worried.”

Daenerys’s eyes were narrowed a bit, confused. “Why would Petyr Baelish know anything about your sister?” she asked.

“It wouldn’t be the strangest thing for him to have taken an interest,” Jon replied quickly, relieved she hadn’t scoffed at him. “He’s known my lord father’s wife since they were children. They were close friends.”

There was no missing her response — she had tugged her lip between her teeth and frowned. The sight of it nearly made him dizzy. It was only the plain discomfort on her face that kept his mind clear.

“What?” he asked when she remained silent.

“It’s probably nothing…” she said slowly. “It’s just — well, something about that seems rather bizarre to me.”

“What part?” he asked.

“Well… you just said Baelish has known Catelyn Stark since they were children, right?” Daenerys asked. 

Jon nodded.

Her brow was still furrowed; the frown deepened. 

“Then why would he seek you out to talk about Sansa instead of just sending Lady Stark a raven? If it were so pressing, surely he wouldn’t wait days to speak with you. And if not, it would make far more sense to go to Sansa’s mother than you.”

Her words cut right through him; he felt foolish he hadn’t already considered that. Jon hadn’t needed a reminder that Daenerys was intelligent, but gods, here was one ready-made. 

And how naive he’d been not to assume Baelish would be conniving enough to use his own sister against him.

“Aye,” he muttered, “you’re right. I can’t believe I lost that much sleep when he’s probably just trying to get a rise out of me. I, er… I might’ve reminded him in our first meeting that he once lost a duel to my late uncle over Lady Catelyn.”

He’d hoped to earn a small grin from her at that — or even just a twitch of the lip. But if anything, her face dropped. She looked a bit depressed.

“What’s wrong?” Jon asked quickly.

“Nothing. It’s just… I think it’s sweet that you were so worried for your sister,” she said quietly, grabbing a lock of her hair and twirling it absently. 

Her words made him feel flushed. “S’what anyone would do,” he mumbled back.

“Not really,” she interrupted. “I’ve made a list of people who could potentially be involved in the attacks against me, you know. Both of my brothers are on it.” 

It was said matter-of-factly, but there was no escaping the implication of her words. Jon thought it might’ve been the saddest thing he’d ever heard.

He tried pathetically to spin it, though it wasn't quite a skill he was known for: “But that doesn’t mean they aren’t worried for you, Daenerys. Everyone who lives in the Red Keep must be on that list.”

“You’re not,” she said, tilting her head to meet his gaze. She seemed to be analyzing his reaction. “It wouldn’t make any sense. You weren’t brought in until after I was kidnapped, and Rhaegar only decided to go outside the Kingsguard because I wasn’t next in line. There are so few people in my life who I can trust, Jon. But here you are.” Her voice was pensive.

Jon swallowed hard, mind frazzled by her words. She was so gods-damned strong. So resolute.

_And she trusted him._

Fucking hells, he loved her.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he grabbed her hand, intertwining their fingers. “I won’t pretend to know what you must be feeling like, what with everything,” he said, “but for whatever it’s worth, I won’t rest until you’re safe. I promise, Daenerys.”

Jon was no poet — that was for certain — but her lips tilted up anyway. Daenerys’s smile hit him like a blow from a lance. He should really go now. Should really quit while he was ahead. Slowly, unwillingly, he relaxed his grip on her, loosening their fingers.

And then she pulled his hand back and re-laced them. He looked up toward her, surprised. She was silent for a moment.

“I can’t stop thinking about what it feels like when you touch me,” she said after a beat. 

Shattered — that’s what he was. Daenerys Targaryen had cut him to shreds and taken the pieces for herself. For the first time, he felt no shame in his rabid desire for her. How could any man listen to such words and not be stirred by them? How could any man withstand her?

And then she continued. 

“I can’t stop thinking about you at all.” Her voice was raw and thick.

But surely he had misheard her. He chanced meeting her gaze, and the punch of her stare was like being thrown from his horse. 

He tried to respond, to say anything, but his mouth and his brain seemed disconnected. 

They were _so close_ to one another. All he could see was her eyes.

His very lungs ached, as if he were inhaling smoke.

“Say something,” Daenerys whispered gently, “ _please,_ Jon.”

The dam broke.

It was as if some force lurched him forward, propelled by a thing beyond any words. Without thought, without restraint, he threaded a hand in her hair and crushed their bodies together, his lips claiming hers at last.

Daenerys melted into him, and a sudden, intense feeling of completion overcame him. He felt whole.

He felt _everything._

Her lips parted, and he took the opportunity to fuse them even tighter together, until there was no space between their bodies at all. Until they were nearly devouring one another.

He knew in that moment that nothing had ever been sweeter than this. That nothing ever would be.

Certainly not being knighted, which had — ’til now — been the fondest memory of his life.

One of her hands was splayed on his chest, resting on his heart. 

_Her_ heart, really, for she undoubtedly owned it.

Daenerys was everywhere. Her other hand had come up around his neck, and she shifted forward until she was practically in his lap. He pulled her closer, and then she was.

Her skin was hotter than the open flames of her fireplace. It was like she had stepped out of an inferno seconds before touching him; everywhere her fingertips brushed against him burned. It made him feel alive. A pounding noise in his ears was all the proof he had that his heart was still pumping.

Jon was quite certain he’d forgotten how to breathe.

The hand that had just been on his neck fisted itself into his hair, tugging gently, and whatever remaining blood had been flowing in his brain disappeared.

Then she made the loveliest sound he’d ever heard: A keening, wanton moan.

It ripped through him in a way nothing else had. And then she pulled her lips away from his — Jon’s fingers tightened on her side reflexively.

Then he opened his eyes and saw hers. They were wide. Stunned.

Her mouth was gaping and she shook her head just the slightest bit. A wave of guilt crushed him.

What in the Seven Hells was he doing? She had told him how frightened she was, how desperate. And he’d responded by mauling her.

Jon pulled away from her then, a Herculean effort. He couldn't remember a thing in his life that had been harder. But still… Daenerys deserved so much more than this. He’d been half-ready to defile her on her settee, his impulse control nonexistent. All because she’d said a few soft words to him.

Whatever feeling she’d somehow developed toward him was surely shattered now: she had allowed him inside her chambers to apologize, and instead, he’d stolen a kiss from her.

He stood up quickly, and her brow furrowed.

“I shouldn’t have — that was inappropriate of me,” he spluttered. “I apologize, your highness. I’ll — uh — I’ll be in my chambers. Should you need me. Sorry again.”

Daenerys was still kneeling on the settee, speechless. And so he fled, fast as his feet could take him, back into his rooms. He closed the door and exhaled, forehead clunking against it.

What a fucking fool he was. And a craven one, too afraid to stay and face her disappointment in him.

His adrenaline had not calmed. Even now, away from her, his blood was racing.

He eyed his sword, rested by the side of his featherbed. He paced back and forth, mind wild.

After the previous night, sleeping should’ve been easy, but he’d never felt less tired in his life.

Outside — he needed to go outside. He needed fresh air to wick her scent away from his skin.

Practicing would burn away some of his energy. And at least if he went to practice, he would be doing something beneficial. Something that might actually help Daenerys, unlike his pawing at her. 

Unlike his pacing.

Without another thought, Jon grabbed his practice gear and threw it on, barely pausing to lace his boots. He grabbed his sword and was out the door in minutes, striding toward the courtyard — _their_ courtyard.

The feeling of her lips hadn’t faded. He picked up his pace.

“Ser Jon!”

He paused, a quick turn of the head confirming that he hadn’t imagined it: Tyrion Lannister was shuffling down the hall toward him, face wan.

“Lord Hand,” he replied stiffly. It was nothing personal to the dwarf, whom Jon rather liked, but now wasn’t exactly the time for a chat.

Tyrion’s mouth pulled down. “Not when my father is in King’s Landing,” he said darkly as he reached him. “I’m glad I found you before Prince Viserys did.”

Jon’s spine stiffened.

“I am, too,” he said, “but why would the prince be looking for me?”

“I believe,” Tyrion began gently — too gently, “that he wished to update you on the investigation into his sister’s attacker.”

There was something in that sentence that felt wrong, something that warranted pursuit. But his interests were split: His desire to know what they’d found versus his desire to know why Viserys Targaryen would personally come to update _him._

He shoved down the instinct to ask about Daenerys first.

“Viserys has never been the one to update me,” he said. Tyrion’s face fell, and Jon felt reassured in his choice. “Why’s he want to now?”

“I don’t believe anyone has ever accused Viserys Targaryen of being easy to befriend,” Tyrion replied carefully, “but he seems to particularly loathe you. I imagine he wanted the simple pleasure of being the one to tell you something you’ll greatly dislike. To — er — see your reaction to it.”

Jon’s insides went cold.

“And what would I dislike?” he grunted out. His nerves were already spread thin from the tumult of the last 24 hours; he wasn’t sure how much more emotional upheaval he could handle.

Later, Jon would note that he probably should’ve expected the worst when Tyrion wouldn’t look him in the face, especially after the way their discussion started. 

Tyrion made eye contact with the stone wall behind him for his next remarks: “A new threat against the princess was found tonight. A letter with… well, with a mangled cat left beside it.”

The contents of the letter were no less repulsive. Truly, there was no other word than depraved.

“Why a cat?” he said hoarsely. “Just to kill something?”

Tyrion still refused to look at him. “The princess is quite fond of animals. She has several cats back at Dragonstone that some of the servants have been caring for in her absence.”

Jon felt nauseous. For a minute or so, they just stood there silently.

“I don’t understand,” he finally choked out. “How do we have nothing? No clues. No leads. It’s just… I don’t understand it.”

Tyrion turned back toward Jon with an odd look in his eyes. His face was sympathetic, but his lips were turned down. He paused for a moment before uttering his reply: “It’s not much, but there is… a _list_ of sorts. Of suspects. It seems rather obvious there’s a traitor in her inner circle.”

He could hear Daenerys’s voice ringing in his ears: _‘I made a list of people…my brothers are on it.’_

Lists. All they had were lists. She had one; they had one. Hells, he might as well make his own.

“If the traitor is close to her, they might be in the room helping write that list,” Jon said.

“That has been acknowledged,” Tyrion allowed. “There are very few people who aren’t on it.”

“Am I?” Jon asked before he could stop himself. He might not be one of the princess’s personal suspects, but if her brother’s court felt differently…

“No,” Tyrion replied quickly. “No. Your name was raised, but it was disregarded. You stand to gain nothing from Daenerys’s disappearance. And the fact that His Grace was the one to reach out to you in the first place… no one seriously considered it.”

“Someone did,” Jon said darkly. He should’ve been relieved to hear that the Small Council trusted him, but the feeling was tainted by the idea that one of them truly believed him capable of hurting Daenerys. “Was it Viserys?” he asked.

Tyrion squinted at him, head tilted. “Pycelle, actually.”

Jon blanched. He knew the grand maester was not his biggest fan, but Pycelle hadn’t been his guess for who would throw him beneath a wagon.

“That’s —” Jon cut himself off before he could say anything he’d regret. Instead, he just shook his head.

The dwarf seemed to agree. Then his face morphed into confusion.

“Say — where were you headed so late in the evening?” Tyrion asked.

“Out to the courtyard for a workout,” he grunted in reply. “Couldn’t sleep.”

His face transformed again, this time to sympathy. “You’re not the only one, though I prefer a stiff drink for such occasions. Which reminds me — I’ve been sober for far too many hours today. Good evening, Ser Jon.”

Tyrion finally excused himself, and Jon was left reeling. Frightening notes, attempted kidnappings and now pointless, gory violence.

His skull pounded harder than a drum, a roaring sound bouncing around inside of it. Furious, he turned, slamming his hands against the stone wall. They stung instantly, but he could barely feel the ache. Not when his stomach was still churning from the more creative lines contained in the note Tyrion read him.

All his talk with the Hand of the King had succeeded in doing was tripling his need to burn off steam. He pivoted and stormed toward the courtyard, this time without interruption.

The moon was thin in the evening sky, a crescent. He stepped onto the stone and unsheathed his sword, steel gleaming even in the low light.

He swung hard and true, practicing until the earliest hours of the morning. Adrenaline kept him alert even as his muscles burned with exhaustion.

It was only the knowledge that he was of little use as a bodyguard if he was not near Daenerys that finally pulled him back into the castle and toward his chambers.

In his bones, he knew that she had been right: Whoever was pulling the strings was not finished yet. But even though he was probably the last person she’d want to see right now, he couldn’t sit by and idly wait. The cost of failure was too high. 

Whatever happened next, he would be ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I have received a bunch of comments/anonymous Tumblr asks about this, I'm just going to answer it right here: Inumbrare is not abandoned. It will never be abandoned. Updates may come slowly because I work long hours and do my best to have a social life, but I have no intention of leaving this fic unfinished. 
> 
> If you're ever curious about the status of an update, please feel free to check in with me on my blog, where I am regularly active and often post previews/answers questions about my fics (esteriivy).
> 
> Thanks, as always, for reading.


	9. DAENERYS IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long wait again, BUT this is the longest chapter yet!!
> 
> This is dedicated to my magnificent beta, Sabrina, in honor of her birthday. The catch is, like with everything I write... it's late. She celebrated her birth last week. But as she has unfortunately had to listen to me rant about, work has been killer as of late. But it is done now, and it is here. Happy belated, Sabrina!!! 
> 
> (Also, I thought it would be weird to have my beta edit her own birthday present, so this chapter is likely to have a few errors in it that survive my own editing. Will adjust as I find them -- sorry.)
> 
> Hope everyone is healthy and safe out there.

**"I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,**   
**in secret, between the shadow and the soul."**

- _Pablo Neruda_

* * *

**DANY.**

* * *

He kissed her.

Jon had kissed her, and then he fled.  Daenerys remained rooted in place as he departed, too shell-shocked to follow after him. But how could she not be?

She had never known — had never even imagined — that a kiss could feel like that. It wasn’t as if she had a wealth of experience to compare it with, but still… it seemed improbable that what she’d just felt was commonplace.

It had been the last of several consecutive surprises... the first when Jon took her hand. He was always so reserved; Daenerys had lost count of the unreciprocated, blatant overtures she’d made toward him. It had begun to feel like a hopeless endeavor.  After one particularly disheartening instance, she had even forced herself to consider that the handsome knight’s heart may have already been claimed by another. That had been an ugly moment.

But tonight, Jon had been the one to reach for her. The warmth of palm on hers made her feel the same way she felt when she rode with him back to the Red Keep from Flea Bottom: like she was safe... like she was cared for.

Daenerys had pulled him back to her without a second thought, desperate to keep him near. And when he finally kissed her? It was like sliding a key into a lock: a feeling of completion.  It had been perfect — every second somehow better than her wildest, most delicious dreams — right up until the moment Jon left her kneeling there on the sofa, flushed and alone.

Her first instinct had been rejection. Daenerys imagined that no woman would enjoy the feeling of someone pulling away and running from them. But it wasn’t long until she was able to shove aside her wounded pride and recognize the truth between the lines. 

Jon had told her before of the insecurity his bastard status gave him.  It was far more likely he felt that he’d overstepped than it was that he found her unappealing.

After all, he had kissed her first; there was no arguing that reality. 

But by the time that thought settled in her mind and her insecurity withered away, it was far too late to knock on his door. The moment felt as if it had already passed. She would need to wait to speak with him about what had happened between them.

Still, knowing there was nothing left for it tonight didn't stop her imagination from running wild. Daenerys retreated to her bed slowly, drifting through her chambers as if in a trance. All she could focus on was the feeling of Jon’s lips on her own.

The thought wouldn’t leave her be; it followed her as she crawled into her featherbed, as she pulled the furs over herself — even as she fell sleep. She dreamed of him, of what might have happened if he had not run from her. If he had stayed. 

He kissed her again, and she moaned. But this time, instead of leaving, he pulled her into his arms. He picked her up. Jon was so strong; it was as if she weighed nothing in his arms. He carried her across her chamber to her featherbed and laid her down on it, covering her body with his own…

When Daenerys woke the next morning, she was disappointed it hadn’t been real. She laid in her featherbed far longer than normal, unsure how to proceed: if she should track Jon down to demand answers or wait until she saw him next. After a furious internal argument, she settled on breaking her fast first. She would need to do that either way.

She dressed slowly — one of her nicer dresses, for a change — given that she had the day off from practice. By the time she actually departed her chambers, she was more than an hour behind her usual schedule. For that reason, Daenerys was surprised when she arrived in the hall and found the younger of her brothers at the high table. Viserys was typically an early riser; it was odd to see him there this late into the morning.

Daenerys hesitated for a moment before making her way toward him. They had not interacted for more than a few minutes at a time since Rhaegar had approached her with his offer, but such actions could not continue indefinitely. Viserys was not stupid; and though she knew they would eventually need to discuss it, she did not want to any earlier than necessary.

“Good morning, Viserys,” she said as she took her seat. “Late start for you, isn’t this?”

Her brother was in an uncharacteristically docile mood; there was no malice in his reply. “I could say the same for you, sister. But you’re right. Lord Velaryon arrived this morning from Driftmark. I joined His Grace to greet their ship before breaking my fast.”

Ah. Sansa Stark was the reason for his pleasant mood, then. That was a good and bad thing. Every time she came to the Red Keep, his mood drastically improved. But whenever the time came for her to depart, he was dreadful for at least a week afterward.

One of the younger servants brought her food to her, and Daenerys thanked her quietly, disheartened to realize that she didn’t know this one’s name. 

She rattled off a generic reply to Viserys, tucking into her meal quietly. From the corner of her eye, she could see her brother watching her.

“It’s nice to see you in a dress befitting a princess again,” he said after a few minutes had passed. “I don’t think I’ve seen you wear anything but the men’s clothes you don for your lessons. Not in weeks.”

It was a true battle not to roll her eyes, one that required a mighty effort.

“What can I say, Viserys?” she replied drily. “It turns out it’s far easier to keep up with Ser Jon in my lessons when I don’t need to navigate a gown.”

Viserys’s eyes narrowed at Jon’s name, and Daenerys regretted bringing him up at all. The two of them seemed preternaturally determined to dislike one another. And Daenerys wasn't sure she could even really blame them for it — their very values clashed. 

“Yes, of course. Ser Jon,” Viserys huffed. “The sooner our brother finds you a match, the better. Then perhaps your husband can protect you, instead of us having to rely on a bastard who trails behind you like a stray dog.”

Her mood soured instantly, fury spiking through her veins. The Targaryen family’s blood ran hot — Viserys liked to call it ‘waking the dragon’ — but such fits were less common from Daenerys than her brothers. That wasn’t the case right now.

“That _bastard,_ as you call him, is the only reason I’m still alive,” she said coldly. “He’s a good man. You shouldn’t talk about him like that.”

Viserys waved his hand dismissively. “Ineptitude on the part of your attackers is the reason you're still alive. You admitted he didn't notice the attackers in Flea Bottom until you screamed.”

“And then took down three of them by himself,” she said. “How many average swordsmen do you know who can take down three men without taking an injury?”

Viserys scowled now, turning to face her more fully. In the corner of her eye, she could see one of the servants blocking the young girl who'd brought her food from approaching with a water jug. Rhaegar's words were ringing in her ears: _'He behaves as if he is still a boy.'_

Right now, at least, she could see what he meant. She hated more than anything when Viserys behaved like this — like his opinion was special, like no one else’s was worth a damn.

“He’s lowborn, Dany,” Viserys continued, “no matter how much you try to pretend otherwise.”

“I’m not pretending anything,” she snarled, “nor do I see a need to. I don’t judge a man’s value by his last name.”

Her brother looked at her as if she had disappointed him.

“Don’t be naive, sister. Everyone is judged by their family. Even _Ser_ Jon is only lauded for his swordsmanship because of who his uncle is.”

“You’re wrong,” she insisted. “He’s lauded for his swordsmanship because he’s talented — and Ser Arthur would never have taken on a squire with no skill. Not if he didn't have what it takes.”

“If he were as talented as you say, then Ser Kevan would still be alive. Is he alive, Dany?”

The words hit her like a slap to the face. Daenerys still felt deeply guilty for the earnest knight’s death, and her brother knew it. There was no argument left here, just cruelty.

“There’s no need to be callous, Viserys,” she spat. “If you wanted privacy to plan your thousandth failure to convince our brother to let you marry Sansa Stark, you should have just said so.”

Her brother’s jaw dropped, some odd cross between fury and embarrassment filling his eyes. 

“How _dare_ you—” he began, but she cut him off.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I seem to have lost my appetite.”

Daenerys pushed her chair back roughly; it scraped against the stone and made a grating noise that drew the whole hall’s gaze. 

“Good morning, _brother,”_ she said before walking away.

***

There was little purpose in delaying her expedition any longer, and frankly, little excuse to. And yet, the truth was that despite her desire to see Jon, to talk to him... Daenerys felt a bit strange going to look for him.

She supposed she shouldn’t; it wouldn’t look too bizarre to any passerby for them to be speaking. No one thought it odd when they walked together after their lessons, and everyone knew he was her instructor. But she had never so deliberately sought him out like this — never in public, at least. And the knowledge of what she really wanted to talk to him about was making her jumpy.

But there wasn’t much of a choice. She liked to think she knew Jon at this point, and the longer she gave him to stew in what had happened, the more likely he’d build his walls back up.  At some point in the last 12 hours, it had become painfully clear to her that she didn’t want that to happen.

She took to the castle grounds, starting with their courtyard. But it wasn’t until she made her way out toward the gardens that she struck gold.

_‘There he was,’_ Daenerys thought. But not alone.

Jon was taking a stroll with his sister.

Sansa Stark visited the Red Keep somewhat often, but Daenerys had never really grown close with the girl. Until relatively recently, she had been at Dragonstone for more than half the year. And even when she was at court, Daenerys often preferred the company of a book or her lessons to the company of others. She had never paid much attention to the girl, outside the occasional attempt to unravel the mystery of what Rhaegar’s issue with her was. Sansa seemed thoroughly benign.

It was only now that Rhaegar had expressed his desire to return to Lyanna Stark that the truth became apparent.  Her brother didn’t think the other Kingdoms would tolerate if both he and Viserys wed Stark women — especially with eligible daughters in both the Martell and Tyrell families. 

A hollow feeling filled her gut as she eyed the duo.

Daenerys couldn’t help but wonder how much of Rhaegar’s offer to her had been based on the idea that she would be willing to marry for duty. She wondered what he would say if he knew how much she yearned for her own Stark family member — it seemed almost absurd, upon thought.  She wondered what it was about the North that so attracted the Targaryens to its people. 

Perhaps it was the wilderness of the land? After all, what else could seem more of a challenge to a dragon than the untamed?

She pushed away the discomfort, plastering a generic smile on her face as she approached them. They saw her when she was still a bit away and had paused awkwardly to allow her to approach. Sansa’s face was politely blank, but she could see from far away that Jon’s cheeks had reddened a small amount.

“Lady Sansa,” she said in greeting as she finally reached them. “Welcome back to King’s Landing. And Ser Jon, a pleasure to see you outside of practice.”

He jerked his head in reply, his blush pronounced now. Sansa, thankfully, didn’t seem to notice. She gave Daenerys an amiable smile. “Thank you, princess," she said. "It is a pleasure to be back.”

“Are you here to visit Viserys?” Daenerys asked. She hadn’t thought the question to be rude, but Sansa stiffened, suddenly on guard. Jon tensed beside her.

“I come to the Red Keep with Lord Velaryon whenever I’m permitted to,” she said carefully — diplomatically. “Prince Viserys is sometimes kind enough to take a stroll with me.”

Daenerys gave her a conspiratorial smile; from the corner of her eye, she saw Jon relax a bit.

“Come now, Lady Sansa,” she said, “it’s hardly a secret that Viserys has asked our brother to approve an engagement. He’s been pushing for it for quite a long time. Living at Dragonstone may have left me out of the loop on some matters, but certainly not ones as well-known as that.”

Sansa’s shoulders dropped a fraction, but her voice was still too casual in her reply.

“His Grace is wise to put so much time and consideration into his heir’s betrothal,” she said graciously.

Sansa had plainly taken well to lessons from Southern women — her face was nearly always schooled perfectly. Her words were polite. The tone was right.

But she wasn’t perfect at masking her true feelings, the way she might’ve been if she were raised in the South for her entire life. Small things made it through the facade, like the fact that her genteel smile didn’t make it all the way to her eyes, or the fact that her jaw was a bit tighter than normal.

Still, Daenerys could hardly blame the girl for her frustration. That guilt rested somewhere between Rhaegar and Viserys. As far as she was concerned, her eldest brother had made it rather apparent that he had no intention of approving the match. Selfish or not — _fair_ or not — that much was true. But Viserys seemed unwilling to accept it, and he clearly had not told Sansa as much.

She was a catch: the beautiful, eldest daughter of a lord paramount. If she were certain that Viserys and her would not be permitted to marry, there was no way she would jeopardize her own prospects by remaining so blatantly linked to him.  Especially given that she seemed so versed in Southern politics.

Daenerys wondered suddenly if she hadn't made an error in judgment by not getting to know the woman her brother claimed to love. It was only now that she was realizing she didn't know much about their relationship — didn't know even if Sansa would be willing to marry him if he surrendered his title to do so.

She was still angry with her brother for his pigheaded comments from earlier, but the girl had played no part in those. If Viserys truly wasn't prepared to give up on marrying her, it would probably do for Daenerys to get to know her better. And if they should not work out... well, Sansa was Jon's sister.

“I understand. It is so important to maintain protocol, of course,” Daenerys said, as conspiratorially as she could muster. “Nevertheless, should you decide to trade your brother for mine as a walking companion, I certainly wouldn’t say a word.”

The reward was worth the effort. Sansa smiled at her again, but this one felt a bit more genuine than the first one she’d received. And it had caused the slightest amount of softness to creep into Jon’s eyes.

“I suppose,” Sansa agreed slowly, “that it would be a nice day for a stroll… should the prince have time.”

Daenerys could not contain the amused, small snort that escaped her. “I imagine he would clear his schedule, even if he didn’t. Viserys isn’t the type to turn down a good offer just to attend meetings that he doesn’t need to be at.” She turned her head to look at Jon. “And you, Ser Jon? Any plans this afternoon?”

Her lips twitched; it seemed she could not so much as suppress a smile around him.

“No, your highness,” he said with an awkward grin, “no practice for you means no plans for me.”

Daenerys was unsurprised to see that Jon was not nearly as good at masking his emotions as his half-sister was. But whether it was the look on his face or their uncharacteristically friendly banter, the jig seemed to be up. When Sansa looked back at Daenerys again, her eyes were narrowed a fraction more than they had been just moments before.

“Jon has always had a great talent with the sword,” Sansa said crisply. “You are quite fortunate to have him here.” Daenerys could hear the pride in the redhead’s voice, but she didn’t think she was imagining the hint of steel that seemed to accompany it. 

Still, she gave the girl a congenial smile. “Ser Jon has been a wonderful instructor,” she agreed. “Our first lesson, I couldn’t lift a sword. Now I can almost use one... and him saving my life certainly didn’t hurt.”

Jon’s cheeks were pink — flushed under the weight of so much praise — but Sansa’s mouth turned down as she looked toward her brother again, eyes filled with concern.

“I forgot that you were with her highness during the attack,” she said. Sansa paused, considering her next words. By the time she spoke again, the mask was firmly back in place. “I’m just pleased that you were both alright.”

It rang hollow, and she knew why. It wasn’t a stretch to see that Sansa would prefer if her brother were far away from Daenerys and the danger that lurked behind her. And she could understand that... If nothing else, the two of them had that in common: Daenerys would never forgive herself if Jon got hurt.

***

She had excused herself shortly after, leaving the two of them to their walk.

The conversation had been illuminating, if a bit of a mistake. Daenerys hadn't been prepared for how sharp the redhead was; she hadn't anticipated her catching on so quickly to the dynamic between Jon and her. And with Sansa paying attention, it seemed unlikely that she would be able to shake her long enough in the middle of the afternoon to guarantee a private conversation — even if the girl did eventually go seek out Viserys. 

But that wasn’t the source of her current frustration.  What bothered her more than her lack of success in speaking with Jon was that the redhead’s suspicion had actually done her a favor. Daenerys had somehow failed to consider that a midday, outdoor discussion with Jon _was_ reckless. She had been too focused on the frequency with which they were seen together and not focused enough on the fact that their faces could give away just as much as their words could.

The grounds were teeming with guards; and Varys, Baelish and Pycelle each seemed to have spies around the castle in numbers that bordered absurdity.

If she wanted to speak with him about matters as sensitive as what had happened between them, it was far too dangerous to do so anywhere but within their chambers. Daenerys needed to remember that society looked at Jon far closer to how Viserys viewed him than the way that she did. If anyone were to overhear them and deduce that their relationship was anything more than professional, she knew the consequences would be far more dire for him than they would for her.

Sansa, ironically, was the safest person to have any suspicion, as she was one of the only people in the Red Keep who would have concern for Jon's safety should such rumors make their way around the castle.

Frustrated with herself, Daenerys spent the bulk of the remaining day ensconced in her chambers, reading. She emerged only when it was time for her supper; and even then, only just long enough to consume her meal. She made certain to sit on the other side of Rhaegar, conversing mainly with Tyrion.

She returned to her room promptly afterward and bathed, tossing on a light, gauzy nightgown and tucking herself back into her loveseat. Between her book and a glass of wine, she felt prepared for her evening. The roaring flames of her fireplace crackled across from her.

But she couldn't focus. Daenerys flipped through the pages absentmindedly, unable to pay attention to the words printed on them. In all the hours she had spent indoors that day, she had made remarkably little progress on the text. She glanced outside — the sun had set; the moon was high and bright.

This was foolish, she realized, snapping her book shut. They still needed to speak, and  Jon was just on the other side of the wall. She had called on him in the evening before, and his own late-night visit was the cause of their current conflict.

Emboldened by the idea, she leapt to her feet. She didn’t bother changing — her attire was, perhaps, a bit risqué without a robe, but given the nature of their discussion, that hardly mattered to her.

She crossed her chamber in a matter of seconds, a quick, firm knock against the wood.

A beat passed, then another.

There was no sound of shuffling beyond the door.

She knocked one more time, frustration building when Jon, again, didn’t come to the door. After another moment, she moved to open it anyway.

Any residual guilt at her abrupt entry was pushed away firmly. This room was technically part of her chambers, after all… even if Jon was presently occupying it.

But when the wooden slab yielded to her hand, she was surprised to see that the room was empty. Daenerys paced back and forth for a moment, indecision weighing heavily on her. The odds of him returning to his room accompanied by another were low, but they weren’t zero. On the other hand, even if he returned by himself, his shock at her presence might be enough to alarm her guards.

Finally — after too much deliberation — she decided to stay. Whatever surprise Jon would find at seeing her in his room was certain to be less awkward than she would feel knocking back and forth all night intermittently until he answered. 

She wavered for a moment as she observed her seating options. To wait on his bed felt improper, given her attire, but the only other option was one the small chairs near the fireplace. It would hardly be comfortable if her wait was lengthy. 

Slowly, haltingly, she took a seat on the corner of his bed.

***

The wait _was_ lengthy. It had been well over an hour since she first knocked on his door, but Jon still hadn’t returned. She was bored and growing rapidly more frustrated, mind running wild with theories on where he could be. Daenerys wished she’d brought her book in with her.

It was at that particular moment that her instructor decided to make himself known. There was a shuffling noise outside the room, the metal clank of a key in a lock, and then the doorknob was turning. She had a stroke of luck as he stepped into the room without looking, focused on shutting the door behind him.

“Jon,” she called quietly.

He jumped, stumbling into the door as he whipped himself around to face her. His eyes were wide — stunned — but he looked mouthwatering. There was a thin sheen of sweat lingering on his skin, his tunic sticking to him the slightest bit.

“Daenerys,” he said hoarsely. His eyes roamed across her, around the room, back to her and then down to the floor. He seemed lost for words.

“Where have you been?” she asked quietly. “It’s rather late.”

“I was training,” he said gruffly. “I… was there something you needed? I’m sorry if I neglected any tasks.”

She shook her head quietly, standing up from her seat on his featherbed. But she hesitated and didn't move any closer.

“No tasks,” she said. “I just wanted to speak with you… about last night.” Daenerys had more than ample time to prepare for this conversation — hells, she had spent the last hour doing nothing but while she waited for him to return. But now that he was standing in front of her, words were failing.

There was no mistaking the stiffness in his spine now; he seemed to be getting more tense by the minute. 

“Aye — er, of course,” Jon stuttered out. He didn’t move closer to her either.

Their dynamic was almost painfully awkward; Daenerys didn’t think they had been this stilted with one another since they’d first met.

His cheeks were fire-red, and he seemed to be making a concerted effort not to look at her. Nothing about this plan — about this entire gods-damned day — had gone as she wanted it to. Viserys, Sansa, then Jon had been off, and now he could hardly look at her. They both remained silent for a moment. Finally, Jon broke it.

“You should probably go first,” he mumbled quietly, staring at the mantel.

“Are you planning on staring at the furniture for this entire discussion?” she finally asked, unable to take any more of his wandering eyes.

Jon’s head whipped toward her reflexively. “Sorry?” he asked. He put his things down slowly, stepping up to one of the chairs beside the fireplace and gripping the top of it tightly. His knuckles looked strained.

“You’ve stared at just about everything in this room since you walked in _except_ for me,” she pressed.

If possible, Jon's face became even more red; he grimaced.

“I was tryin’ to be polite,” he mumbled.

What a puzzling answer, given that his behavior was uncharacteristically _im_ polite.

“What is 'polite' about refusing to look at me? she asked. Her voice was short.

“Was trying to avoid… staring at... well, your nightgown,” he finally muttered.

_Oh._

Some of her irritation seeped away, replaced with a warm feeling. Flattery, maybe.

“I… well, I’m sure you've enough self-control to manage,” she stuttered out, embarrassed a bit by her own hostility. Daenerys couldn't recall the last time she'd been this nervous — this anticipatory.

But her words must have jolted him out of his own nerves because he snorted at them. “Actually, I think I made it quite clear last night that my self-control is shite around you,” he said. He paused for a moment, and his face turned more serious. “Which I should apologize for again. I don't know what came over me, but it was a mistake.”

A wave of frustration threatened to knock her knees out from beneath her, but at least they had made it to the actual subject.

“I don't understand you, Jon,” she said. “I haven't asked you for an apology. Not last night, not this afternoon, and not now.”

“But you deserve one,” he interrupted. “You told me you trusted me, and I... I got carried away, I suppose. It's not an excuse.” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard.

“Or you regretted it and are trying to spare my feelings now,” she said mulishly. Daenerys knew in her heart that her words weren't fair, but the fear was still there. Now that she knew how she felt about him, it was impossible to ignore it. She hadn't felt such a burning need to be childish in a long time, but it came out of her now with ease.

Jon's eyes widened, surprised. “That's not at all—” he stumbled, but he didn't seem like he was lying. He seemed appalled. “I don't understand how you could... you know that's not what happened.”

“I don't, actually,” she said, folding her arms over her chest. “I basically threw myself at you, and you ran away from me. If what you're saying were true, you wouldn’t have left me there, staring after you.”

“That’s not fair, Daenerys,” he argued immediately. “You know that’s not fair. I didn’t want to — of course, I would rather — I was trying to…” Jon trailed off, seemingly unsure what to say.

She acted solely on instinct, seizing his moment of weakness: “Trying to what, exactly?”

“You were upset!” He finally exclaimed. “You’d _just_ told me you were scared, and here I was just… taking all sorts of liberties that aren’t mine to take.”

_Gods,_ he really was that noble. That controlled. It drove her mad at her basest level. It made her want to incite him, push him. She wanted to see him express as much emotion as she felt whenever she looked at him.

“They’re no ones to take,” she said. “They’re only mine to give, and I didn't tell you to stop. You did that.”

Jon was still flushed; his eyes darted back and forth. The hand still resting on the chair in front of him was clenched tightly. “I had to.”

She shook her head. “You didn't.”

He finally stepped around the chair and over toward her, pausing just a bit out of reach. “You don't understand, Daenerys. Even as a guard, I can't believe that your brother lets me sleep in a room this close to you. It doesn't matter what I want to do. I'm a bastard,” he said.

_“Don't_ call yourself that,” she interrupted.

“But it's true,” he said fiercely, “and it does matter.”

“Only to fools,” she exclaimed. “Gods, Jon, do you ever do anything for your own bloody self?!”

He finally lost his cool.  “Just what is it that you think I’m doing, Daenerys?” Jon exclaimed. “How long do you think I'll be allowed to stay here if the king... I need to protect you. There is nothing else in this entire gods-forsaken world that’ll make me happy until you’re safe. _Nothing._ Do you understand?” 

Not really, she thought, stunned. Daenerys had never actually considered the idea that Jon cared for her that much.  He couldn’t. He was so stoic, such a master of his emotions. Her own ran hot through her, overwhelming everything else in their path, but Jon was always cool and collected.  She couldn't imagine him feeling so much and showing so little. It was beyond her.

Daenerys stepped toward him slowly, as if in a trance. She could almost see what lay on the path before her, almost knew what words to say.

“I didn't know,” she said softly.

“You weren't supposed to,” he muttered back. His jaw was tense.

“Tell me the truth, Jon,” she pleaded. “Tell me what you wish you could say.”

He looked away from her, swallowing.  When he finally answered her, his voice was miserable. “That’s hard for me to do.”

She stepped even closer to him, reaching up to turn his face back toward hers. 

“You don’t need to be afraid,” she said. “Not of me.”

He took a deep, shaky breath and met her gaze. Jon’s eyes were fathomless pools, their reach beyond her grasp. Slowly, haltingly, he lifted his own hand to cover hers.

“I’m in love with you, Daenerys,” he said quietly. “You must know that.”

There was no way to describe the fullness in her chest. Her blood felt like it’d been turned to honey, sweet and thick. It pumped through her heart slowly — time slowed to a crawl.

Happiness, distilled.

“I know it now,” she said simply. “And I know that you are the best man I’ve ever met.”

“Daenerys,” came his whispered reply, his voice weak.

“Dany, actually,” she interrupted. “The people that I love are allowed to call me Dany.”

His eyes crinkled for a moment and then swelled with so much emotion that it jolted her. Gods, how much of his heart had he withheld from her?

“Dany,” he tested quietly. 

It sounded sinful; she felt it in her bones.

“Jon,” she replied, smiling. And then she took one step forward, threaded a hand in his curls and pulled him to her, their mouths meeting again.

His lips were feverish against hers.

_Yes._

It was the same rush as the night before, only grander. Wilder. Jon kissed her like a man dying of thirst. She had been praised by a million courtiers, regaled with tales of her brilliance and beauty, but never before had she felt so adored.

She loved him; he loved her. Everything else paled in comparison.

The only thing in the world that she cared to focus on was the feeling of his lips, pressing hard against her own, and the warmth building in her body once more.  This time, he didn’t pull away instantly. This time, he pulled her closer.

Jon's arms were wrapped around her tightly, as if he were afraid to let go of her. Slowly, he allowed them to drift, running over the curves of her waist and hips. She took the opportunity to do the same, clutching at the fabric of his tunic. She could feel his muscles taut beneath it.

They were still standing in front of his bed. A dim thought brought through her haze, reminding her that it was safer by far for them to be in her chambers. She pulled back briefly, breathing heavily.

“Come with me,” she said. She lead him back into her own room, shutting the door behind them quietly. She turned back toward Jon, and he swallowed hard. His pupils were so wide that his eyes looked black.

There was a beat, and then they were kissing again. They stumbled over toward her bed, falling onto the furs in a heap. Daenerys pulled him over her, a low moan escaping her as she felt him hard against her thigh. The sound spurred him on and he moved his lips to her neck. His beard added a delicious friction to the feeling.

“You're so bloody fucking gorgeous,” he said against her skin. Her mind went blissfully blank at his words, at the feeling, at everything. “Never seen any like it. Do you know how hard it was to see you on my bed in this?” His fingers were running over the side of her nightgown.

She arched her back, a surge of heat filling her. Daenerys's knowledge of sex was somewhat limited; she had read plenty about it — sneaking some filthier books into her shelves — but she hadn't known she could feel like this. So _wanton._

The straps of her nightgown had slipped down her arms. Her nipples were hard and straining against the fabric; it was sheer enough that she could see a faint hint of their outline. She shifted again and felt a delicious pressure against her core — a whimper escaped her. 

She reached up and pushed the top of her nightgown further down, exposing her breasts to him. 

“Fuck, Dany,” he choked out as his eyes roved over her. He looked ravenous. Jon latched a mouth onto one of them, tongue sliding over her nipple. She bucked hard, the spike of pleasure intense.

Daenerys reached for the bottom of his shirt blindly, pulling at it. He helped her rid himself of it, and then he kissed her again. The feeling of his skin on hers made her feel drunk. He was still hard as a rock against her leg, and she was struck by how intensely she wanted him. She hadn't planned it, hadn't imagined that it even could be this night. But she knew beyond a doubt that it was what she wanted.

“Jon,” she moaned softly. Then she reached for the lacing of his pants.  That seemed to jolt him back into himself, and he found the restraint she lacked — Jon pulled away a fraction of an inch. 

“We can’t do that,” he whispered, though uttering the words seemed to pain him.

Daenerys reached a hand up to his cheek, staring into his eyes. 

“I love you,” she said quietly. “Do you love me?”

“Of course I do,” he exhaled fervently.

She threaded her arms around his neck. “Then show me,” she said.

Jon wavered for a moment, pupils wide with want.  “Are you... are you sure, Dany?”

She had never been more sure.

“Your princess has given you a command,” she said, holding his gaze. “Will you ignore it?”

His face finally crumbled. “Gods help me, but I don’t think a man alive could.”

Jon kissed her again, hard and blazing. And then he undid the rest of the lacing, pushing his pants and small clothes down in one go. His cock was rock hard, large and swollen-looking. Another spike of pleasure flitted through her.

She pulled the bottom of her gown up until it was pooled around her hips, but Jon didn't take her immediately. He hovered over her, dazed, and slid a finger into her core. Daenerys had to bite her lip to stop herself from crying out. He added a second, pumping them slowly until she relaxed into it, a fuzzy feeling building inside her skull.

Finally, he withdrew them and laid back on top of her. "I love you," he said again. 

Then Jon buried his face in her neck and pushed inside her slowly, his hands tightening as he inhaled sharply.

The pain was there, though she had known to expect it. She dug her nails into his back, a gasp escaping her lips. He pulled back for a moment and met her eyes.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

She nodded quickly, leaning up to kiss him again. Then  Jon kept going, settling into a rhythm with his thrusts that eased some of the ache.

Daenerys had never felt so utterly complete.

He thrusted again, and the fuzzy feeling grew stronger. She made a keening sound, and he lifted a hand, motions half-drunken, to rub her clit. This time, it was nearly impossible to stop herself from crying out.

Suddenly, without warning, she came. It was intense, overpowering. She bucked, and she was aware enough to hear his choked gasp as he followed her over the edge. He collapsed to her side, careful not to crush her, staring at her with so much intensity that she couldn't believe he had ever been able to mask it.

For a moment, they just looked at one another. And then she inched her body closer. He reached for her, and draped an arm around her.

“I love you,” she said quietly into his chest.

“Gods, Dany,” he sighed. “You’ve no idea.”

“You’ll stay with me?” she mumbled.

She could feel his nod against the top of her head.

“As long as you'll have me,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3

**Author's Note:**

> I do have the plot entirely outlined (in detail), but please let me know what you think! :) (Or find me on Tumblr if you prefer.) <333


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